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^ 


LECTURES 


ON 


RHETORIC 


AND 


BELLES     LETTRES. 


6«.Wi^M)i'^VWtv^*« 


By    HUGH    BLAIR,    d.  d. 

ONE   or   THE  MINISTERS  OF    THE    HIGH   CHURCH,   AND    PROFEtSOR   OF   RHETORIC 
AND    BELLES    LETTRES    IN    THE    UNIVERSITV    OF    EDINBURGH. 


C!)irD  American  €Dittou. 


IN  TWO   VOLUMES. 
VOL.  L 


Printed  by  L  THOMAS  and  E.  T.  ANDREWS. 

Sold  at  their  Bookftorc,  No.  45,  Ncwbury-Street,  and  by  faid  Thomas,  in 
Woicejiir.  Sold  alfo  by  Whiting,  Leavenworth  15*  Whiting,  Albany  ,• 
Parker  13*  Penwiman,  Troy  ;  Thomas,  Andrews  ^  Butler,  B^iltimore  f 
aad  i.  IJEERi  and  Co.  N-'-v  Ha^cn. 

SEPT'    l302. 


R   E   F  A   C  E. 


J.  HE  following  Lectures  were  read 
in  the  Univerfity  of  Edinburgh,  for  twenty-four 
years.  The  publication  of  them,  at  prefent,  was 
not  altogether  a  matter  of  choice.  Imperfedt  Cop- 
ies of  them,  in  Manufcrlpt,  from  notes  taken  by 
Students  who  heard  them  read,  were  firft  privately 
handed  about  ;  and  afterwards  frequently  expofed 
to  public  fale.  When  the  Author  faw  them  circu- 
late fo  currently,  as  even  to  be  quoted  in  print,* 
and  found  himfelf  often  threatened  with  furrepti- 
tious  publications  of  them,  he  judged  it  to  be  high 
time  that  they  fliould  proceed  from  his  own  hand, 
rather  than  come  into  public  view  under  fome  very 

dcfedive  and  erroneous  form. 

They 

*'  Biograpbia  Eritannica.    Article,  Adeison. 


IV  P      Ji      £      F      A      C      E. 

They  were  originally  defigned  for  the  initiation 
pf  youth  into  the  ftudy  of  Belles  Lettres,  and  pf 
Compofition.  With  the  fame  intention  they  are 
now  publifhed ;  and,  therefore,  the  form  of  Lec- 
tures, in  which  they  were  at  firft  compofed,  is  ftill 
retained.  The  Author  gives  them  to  the  world, 
neither  as  a  work  wholly  original,  nor  as  a  Com- 
pilation from  the  Writings  of  others.  On  every 
fubjedt  contained  in  them,  he  has  thought  for  him- 
felf.  He  confulted  his  own  ideas  and  reflections  : 
and  a  great  part  of  what  will  be  found  in  thcfe 
Lectures  is  entirely  his  own.  At  the  fame  time, 
he  availed  himfelf  of  the  ideas  and  reflexions  of 
others,  as  far  as  he  thought  them  proper  to  be 
adopted.  To  proceed  in  this  manner,  was  his 
duty  as  a  Public  Profefibr.  It  was  incumbent  on 
him,  to  convey  to  his  Pupils  all  the  knowledge 
that  could  improve  them  ;  to  deliver  not  merely 
what  was  new,  but  what  might  be  ufeful,  from 
whatever  quarter  it  came.  He  hopes,  that  to  fuch 
as  are  fludying  to  cultivate  their  Tafte,  to  form 
their  Style,  or  to  prepare  themfeives  for  Public 
Speaking  or  Compofition,  his  Lectures  will  afford 
a  more  comprehenfive  view  of  what  relates  to  thefe 
fubjeCls,  than,  as  far  as  he  knows,  is  to  be  received 

from  any  one  book  in  our  Language. 

In 


C      i. 


In  order  to  render  his  Work  of  greater  fervicc, 
he  has  generally  referred  to  the  Books  which  he 
confulted,  as  far  as  he  remembers  them ;  that  the 
Readers  might  be  directed  to  any  farther  illuftra- 
tion  which  they  afford.  But,  as  fuch  a  length  of 
time  has  elapfed  fmce  the  firft  Compofition  of  his 
Ledures,  he  may,  perhaps,  have  adopted  the  fen- 
timents  of  fome  Author  into  whofe  Writings  he 
had  then  looked,  without  now  remembering  whence 
he  derived  them. 

In  the  opinions  which  he  has  delivered  concern- 
ing fuch  a  variety  of  Authors,  and  of  literary  mat- 
ters, as  come  under  his  ccnfi deration,  he  cannot 
exped:  that  all  his  readers  will  concur  with  him. 
The  fubjedls  are  of  fuch  a  nature,  as  allow  room 
for  much  diverfity  of  tafte  and  fentiment :  and  the 
Author  will  refpedtfully  fubmit  to  the  judgment  of 
the  Public. 

Retaining  the  fimplicity  of  the  Lecturing  Style, 
as  beft  fitted  for  conveying  inflrudlion,  he  has  aim- 
ed, in  his  Language,  at  no  more  than  perfpicuity. 
If,  after  the  liberties  which  it  was  necefTary  for  him 
to  take,  in  criticifmg  the  Style  of  the  moft  eminent 

V\^ritcrs 


M  PREFACE, 

Writers  In  our  language,  his  own  Style  fhall  be 
thought  open  to  reprehenfion,  all  that  he  can  fay, 
is,  that  his  Book  will  add  one  to  the  many  proofs, 
already  afforded  to  the  world,  of  its  being  much 
eafier  to  give  inftrudion,  than  to  fet  example. 


CONTENTS 

OF    THE 

FIRST    VOLUME. 


Page 
I 


Lect- 

I.  Introduction. 

II.  Taje.                -               -                -                -  II 

III.  Criticlftn.     Genius.     Pleafurei  of  Tajle.     Sublimity  in 

OhjeEls.                _                _                .                 _  26 

IV.  The  Sublime  in  IVriiing.                -                -            -  41 

V.  Beauty  and  other  Pleafures  of  Tafe.             -             -  57 

VI.  Rife  and  Progrefs  of  Language.                -                -  6^ 

VII.  Rife  and  Progrefs  of  Language ^  and  of  Writing.  83 

VIII.  StruHure  of  Language.           -            -                -  97 

IX.  Stru&ure  of  Language.     Englif)}  Tongue,             -  113 

X.  Style.     Perfpicuity  and  Precifion.                -            -  130 

XI.  StruBure  of  Sentences.           -               -              -  141^ 

XII.  StruBure  of  Sentences.             -                -                -  160 

XIII.  Stru5lure  of  Sentences.     Harmony.                 -  17^ 

XIV.  Origin  and  Nature  of  Figurative  Language.  1  p  2 

XV.  Metaphor.                 _                 .                 -                 -  2o8 

XVI.  Hyperbole.     Perfonification.     Apoflrophe.            -  224 

XVII.  Comparifony  Antithefsy  Literrogatioiiy  Exclamation^ 

and  other  Figures  of  Speech.                -            -  241 

XVIII.  Figurative  Language.     General  Characters  of  Style. 

Diffufe,  Concife.     Feehlcy  Nervous.     Dryy  Plain, 

Neaty  Elegant y  Flowery.              -                -  2 ;  c; 

XIX.  General  CharaElers  of  Style.     Simple,  Affecledy  Vehe- 

ment.    DireHions  for  forming  a  proper  Stxie.  273 

XX.  Critical  Examination  of  the  Style  of  Mr.  Addifony  in 

No.  411  of  the  Sped  at  or.                  -                -  28S 

XXI.  Critical  Examination  of  the  Style  in  No.  412  f  the 

SpeHator.           -                -                -                -  30  J 

XXII.  Critical  Examination  of  the  Style  in  No.  413  it/'  the 

Spedator.           -          -          -        .  _           -  3  j  ;;■ 

XXIII.   Critical  ' 


wii  CONTENTS, 

Lect.  Page 

XXIII.  Critical  Exat7iinatkn  cf  the  Style  in  Ns.  414  of  the 

Spe^atcr.  -  -  -  -  -  026 

XXIV.  Critical  Exawination  of  the  Style  in  a  FaJTage  of 

Dean  Stxiiffs  Writitigs.  -  -  -  ^3^ 

XXV.  Ehcucnce,   or   Public   Speaking.       Hijior^f    cf  Elo- 

quence.     Grecian  FJoquejice.     Demo/lhenes.  352 

XXVI.  Hflory  of"  Eloquence  continued.     Roman  Eloquence. 

Cicero.     Modern  Eloquence  -  -  369 


LECTURES  ON  RHETORIC,  &c. 


LECTURE        L 


INTRODUCTION. 


Oi 


'NE  of  the  mod  diftingulfhed  privileges  which  Prov- 
idence has  conferred  upon  mankind,  is  the  power  of  commu- 
nicating their  thoughts  to  one  another.  Deftitute  of  this  pow- 
er, Reaion  would  be  a  folitary,  and,  in  fome  meafure,  an  un- 
availing principle.  Speech  is  the  great  inftrument  by  which 
man  becomes  beneficial  to  man  :  and  it  is  to  the  intercourfe 
and  tranfmiffion  of  thought,  by  means  of  fpeech,  that  we  arc 
chiefly  indebted  for  the  improvement  of  thought  itfelf.  Small 
are  the  advantages  which  a  lingle  unaffifted  individual  can 
make  towarfis  perfecting  any  of  his  powers.  What  we  call 
human  reafon,  is  not  the  effort  or  ability  of  one,  fo  much  as 
it  is  the  refuit  of  the  reafon  of  many,  arifmg  from  lights  mutu- 
ally communicated,  in  confequence  of  difcourfe  and  writing. 
It  is  obvious,  then,  that  writing  and  difcourfe  are  objedts  en- 
titled to  the  higheft  attention.  Whether  the  influence  of  the 
fpeaker,  or  the  entertainment  of  the  hearer,  be  confulted  ; 
whether  utility  or  pleafure  be  the  principal  aim  in  view,  we  are 
prompted,  by  the  ftrongeft  motives,  to  ftudy  how  wc  may  com"-* 
municatc  our  thoughts  to  one  another  with  moft  advantage. 
Accordingly  we  find,  that  in  almoft  every  nation,  as  foon  as 
language  had  extended  itfelf  beyond  that  fcanty  communication 
which  was  requiiite  for  th^  fupply  of  men's  neceflities,  the 
improvement  of  difcourfe  began  to  attra6l  regard.  In  the  lan- 
guage even  of  rude  uncultivated  tribes,  we  can  trace  fome  at- 
tention to  the  grace  and  force  of  thofc  expreflions  which  they 
B  ufed. 


2  INTRODUCTION.  Lect.  I. 

ufed,  when  they  fought  to  perluade  or  to  affe£t.  They  were 
early  fenfible  of  a  beauty  in  difcourfe,  and  endeavoured  to  give 
it  certain  decorations  which  experience  had  taught  them  it  was 
capable  of  receiving,  long  before  the  fludy  of  thofc  decorations 
was  formed  into  a  regular  art. 

But,  among  nations  in  a  civilized  flate,  no  art  has  been  cul- 
tivated with  more  care,  than  that  of  language,  ftyle,  and  com- 
pofition.  The  attention  paid  to  it,  may,  indeed,  be  affumed  as 
one  mark  of  the  progrefs  of  focicty  towards  its  mofl  fhiproved 
period.  For,  according  as  focicty  Improves  and  flouriflies,  men 
acquire  more  influence  ove*  one  another  by  means  of  reafoning 
and  difcourfe  •,  and  in  proportion  as  that  influence  is  felt  to 
enlarge,  it  mufl  fo^pw>  as  a  natural  confequence,  that  they 
will  beliow  more  care  upon  themetliods  of  exprefUng  their 
conceptions  with  propriety  and  eloquence.  Hence  we  find, 
that  in  all  the  poUQied  nations  of  Europe,  this  fludy  has  been 
treated  as  highly  important,  and  has  poflefled  a  conliderable 
place  in  every  plan  of  liberal  education. 

Indeed,  when  the  arts,  of  fpeeph  and  writing  are  mentioned, 
I  am  fenhble  that  prejudices  againft  them  are  apt  to  rife  in  the 
minds  oi  many.  A  fort  of  art  is  immediately  thought  of,  that 
is  ollentatious  and  deceitful  j  the  minute  and  trifling  ftudy  of 
words  alone  ;  the  pomp  of  ttxprefiion  ;  the  ftudied  fallacies  of 
rhetoric  ;  ornament  fubftituted  in  the  room  of  ufe.  We  need 
not  wonder,  that  under  fuch  imputations,  all  ftudy  of  difcourfe 
as  an  art,  fliould  have  fuffered  in  the  opinion  of  men  of  under- 
ftanding  :  and  I  am  far  from  denying,  that  rhetoric  and  criticlfm 
have  fometimes  been  fo  maibtgcd  as  to  tend  to  the  corruption, 
rather  than  to  the  improvement,  of  good  tafte  and  true  elo- 
quence. But  fuve  it  is  equally  poflible  to  apply  the  principles 
of  reafon  and  good  fenfe  to  this  art,  as  to. any  other  that  is  cul- 
tivated among  men.  If  the  following  Lectures  have  any  mer- 
it, it  will  confill  in  an  endeavour  to  fubilitute  the  application 
of  thefe  principles  In  the  place  of  artificial  and  fcholaftic  rhetoric; 
in  an  endeavour  to  explode  falfe  ornament,  to  dire6l  attention 
more  towards  fubftance  than  fliow,  to  recommend  good  fenfe 
as  the  foundation  of  all  good  compofition,  and  fimplicity  as 
eflential  to  all  true  ornament. 

When  entering  on  the  fubje^l,  I  may  be  allowed,  on  this 
occafion,  to  fuggell  a  few  thoughts  concerning  the  importance 

and 


Lect.I.         introduction.  3 

and  advantages  of  fuch  ftudies,  and  the  rank  they  are  entitled 
to  pofTcfs  in  academical  education.*  I  am  under  no  temptation 
for  this  purpofe,  of  extolling  their  importance  at  the  expenfe 
of  any  other ,  department  of  fcience.  On  the  contrary,  the 
ftudy  of  llhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres  fuppofes  and  requires  a 
proper  acquaintance  with  the  reft  of  the  liberal  arts.  It  em- 
braces them  all  within  its  circle,  and  recommends  them  to  the 
higheft  regard.  The  firft  care  of  all  fuch  as  wifli  either  to  write 
with  reputation,  or  to  fpeak  in  public  fo  as  to  command  atten- 
tion, muft  be,  to  extend  their  knov/ledge  ;  to  lay  in  a  rich  ftore 
of  ideas  relating  to  thofe  fubjefts  of  which  the  occafions  of  life 
may  call  them  to  difcourfe  or  to  write.  Hence,  among  the  an- 
cients, it  was  a  fundamental  principle,  and  frequently  inculcat- 
ed, "  Quod  omnibus  difciplinis  et  artibus  debet  efle  inftru6lus 
"  orator  •,"  that  the  orator  ought  to  be  an  accompliflied  fcholar, 
and  converfant  In  every  part  of  learning.  It  is  indeed  impolfi- 
ble  to  contrive  an  art,  and  very  pernicious  it  were  if  it  could  be 
contrived,  which  fhould  give  the  ftamp  of  merit  to  any  com- 
pofition  rich  or  fplendid  in  exprefllon,  but  barren  or  erroneous 
in  thought.  They  are  the  wretched  attempts  towards  an  art 
of  this  kind  which  have  fo  often  difgraced  oratory,  and  debafcd 
it  below  its  true  ftandard.  The  graces  of  compofition  have 
been  employed  to  difguife  or  to  fupply  the  want  of  matter  ; 
and  the  temporary  applaufe  of  the  ignorant  has  been,  courted, 
jnftead  of  the  lafting  approbation  of  the  difcerning.  But  fuch 
impofture  can  never  maintain  its  ground  long.  Knowledge 
and  fcience  muft  furnifti  the  materials  that  form  the  body  and 
fubftance  of  any  valuable  compofition.  Rhetoric  ferves  to 
add  the  polifh  ;  snd  we  know  that  none  but  firm  and  folid 
bodies  can  be  poliftied  well. 

Of  thofe  who  perufe  the  following  Le£lures,  fome,  by  the 
profeflion  to  which  they  addl£l  themfelves,  or  in  confequence 
of  their  prevailing  inclination,  may  have  the  view  of  being 
employed  in  compofition,  or  in  public  fpeaking.     Others,  with- 
out 

*  The  AutJior  was  the  fii  ft  wlio  rrad  Lc<5lurcs  on  this  fulijeifl  in  the  Univcr- 
fity  of  Ediiiburgli.  He  bcgau  with  reading  them  in  a  private  characHier  in  the 
year  1759.  ^"  '^^^^  following  year  he  was  chofen  I'rofcflor  of  Rhetoric  by  the 
magiftratcs  and  town-council  of  Edinburgh:  and,  in  176^,  his  Majcfty  was 
pieafcd  to  crcdl  and  endow  a  Profcilion  of  Rhetoric  and  Belles  I.cttrcs  in  that 
Univcrfity  ;  ar.d  the  Author  was  appointed  the  firft  Regius  Profcflbr. 


4  INTRODUCTION.  IncT.  I. 

out  any  profpeft  of  this  kind,  may  wifh  only  to  improve  their 
tafte  with  refpe£t  to  writing  and  difcourfe,  and  to  acquire 
principles  which  will  enable  them  to  judge  for  themfelves  in 
that  part  of  literature  called  the  Belles  Lettres. 

"With  refpe£t  to  the  former,  fuch  as  may  have  occafion  to 
communicate  their  fentiments  to  the  Public,  it  is  abundantly 
clear  that  fome  preparation  of  ftudy  is  rcquifite  for  the  end 
which  they  have  in  view.  To  fpeak  or  to  write  perfpicuoufly 
and  agreeably,  with  purity,  with  grace  and  ftrength,  are  attain- 
ments of  the  utmofl  confequence  to  all  who  purpofe,  either  by 
fpeech  or  writing,  to  addrefs  the  Public.  For  without  being 
anafter  of  thofe  attainments,  no  man  can  do  juftice  to  his  own 
conceptions  ;  but  how  rich  foever  he  may  be  in  knowledge  and 
in  good  fenfe,  will  be  able  to  avail  himfelf  lefs  of  thofe  treafures, 
than  fuch  as  poflefs  not  half  his  ftore,  but  who  can  difplay  what 
they  poflefs  with  more  propriety.  Neither  are  thefe  attain- 
ments of  that  kind  for  which  we  are  indebted  to  nature  merely. 
Nature  has,  indeed,  conferred  upon  fome  a  very  favourable 
diflindion  in  this  refpe£t,  beyond  others.  But  in  thefe,  as  in 
mod  other  talents  flie  beftows,  fhe  has  left  much  to  be  wrought 
out  by  every  man's  own  indudry.  So  confpicuous  have  been 
the  effedls  of  fludy  and  improvement  in  every  part  of  eloquence  j 
fuch  remarkable  examples  have  appeared  of  perfons  furmount- 
ing,  by  their  diligence,  the  difadvantages  of  the  mofl  untoward 
nature,  that  among  the  learned  it  has  long  been  a  contelled, 
and  remains  flill  an  imdecided  point,  whether  nature  or  art 
confer  mod  towards  excelling  in  writing  or  difcourfe. 

With  refpe6t  to  the  manner  in  whicli  art  can  mofl  effe^lual- 
3y  furnifh  affiftance  for  fuch  a  purpofe,  there  may  be  diverfity 
of  opinions.  I  by  no  means  pretend  to  fay  that  mere  rhetorical 
rules,  how  juft  foever,  are  fuflicient  to  form  an  orator.  Sup- 
pofing  na"'  ral  genius  to  be  favourable,  more  by  a  great  deal  will 
depend  upon  private  application  and  fludy,  than  upon  any 
fyflem  of  in{lru£lion  that  is  capable  of  being  publickly  commu- 
nicated. But  at  the  fame  time,  though  rules  and  inftrutlions 
cannot  do  all  that  is  requifite,  they  may,  however,  do  much 
that  is  of  real  ufe.  They  cannot,  it  is  true,  infpire  genius  ; 
but  they  can  di.re(E!l  and  afTifl:  it.  They  cannot  remedy  barren- 
nefs  J  but  they  may  correal  redundancy.  Tliey  point  out  pro- 
per 


Lect.I.  introduction.  5 

per  models  for  imitation.  They  bring  into  view  the  chief 
beauties  that  ought  to  be  ftudied,  and  the  principal  faults  that 
ought  to  be  avoided  ;  and  thereby  tend  to  enlighten  tafte,  and  to 
lead  genius  from  unnatural  deviations,  into  its  proper  channel. 
What  would  not  avail  for  tlie  produ6lion  of  great  excellencies, 
may  at  leaft  ferve  to  prevent  the  commifTion  of  confiderablc 
errors. 

All  that  regards  the  ftudy  of  eloquence  and  compofition, 
merits  the  higher  attention  upon  this  account,  that  it  is  inti- 
mately connected  with  the  improvement  of  our  intclle£luat 
powers.  For  I  mufl  be  allowed  to  fay,  that  when  we  are  em- 
ployed, after  a  proper  manner,  in  the  ftudy  of  compofition,  we 
are  cultivating  reafon  itfelf.  True  rhetoric  and  found  logic 
are  very  nearly  allied.  The  ftudy  of  arranging  apd  expreffing 
our  thoughts  with  propriety,  teaches  to  think,  as  well  as  tr> 
fpeak,  accurately.  By  putting  our  fcntiments  into  words,  we 
always  conceive  them  more  diftindly.  Every  one  who  has 
the  Highteft  acquaintance  with  compofition  knows,  that  when 
he  expreifes  himfelf  ill  on  any  fubjcft,  when  his  arrangement 
becomes  loofe,  and  his  fentences  turn  feeble,  the  dcfecfls  of  his 
__ftyle  can,  almoft  on  every  occafion,  be  traced  back  to  his  in- 
diftindl;  conception  of  the  fubjeft  :  fo  clofe  is  the  connexion 
between  thoughts  and  the  words  in  which  they  are  clothed. 

The  ftudy  of  compofition,  important  in  itfelf  at  all  times, 
has  acquired  additional  importance  from  the  tafte  and  man- 
ners of  the  prefent  age.  It  is  an  age  wherein  improvements, 
in  every  part  of  fcience,  have  been  profecuted  with  ardour. 
To  all  the  liberal  arts  much  attention  has  been  paid  ;  and  to 
none  more  than  to  the  beauty  of  language,  and  the  grace  and 
elegance  of  every  kind  of  writing.  The  public  ear  is  become 
refined.  It  will  not  eafily  bear  what  is  flovenly  and  incorreft. 
Every  author  muft  afpire  to  feme  merit  in  expreftion,  as  well 
as  in  fentiment,  if  he  would  not  incur  the  danger  of  being 
neglecled  and  defpifed. 

I  will  not  deny  that  the  love  of  minute  elegance,  and  atten- 
tion to  inferior  ornaments  of  compofition,  may  at  prefent  have 
engroflcd  too  great  a  degree  of  the  public  regard.  It  is  indeed 
my  opinion,  that  we  lean  to  this  extreme  -,  often  more  careful 
of  polifliing  ftyle,  than  of  ftoring  it  with  thought.     Yet  hence 

arifi.'s 


6  INTRODUCTION.  lEct.I. 

arifes  a  new  reafon  for  the  fludy  of  jufl:  and  proper  compofition. 
If  it  be  requifite  not  to  be  deficient  in  elegance  or  ornament 
m  times  when  they  are  in  fuch  high  eftimation,  it  is  ftill  more 
requifite  to  attain  the  power  of  diflinguilhing  falfe  ornament 
from  true,  in  order  to  prevent  our  being  carried  away  by  that 
torrent  of  falfe  and  frivolous  tafte,  which  never  fails,  when  it 
is  prevalent,  to  fweep  along  with  it  the  rxw  and  the  ignorant. 
They  who  have  never  fludicd  eloquence  in  its  principles,  nor 
have  been  trained  to  attend  to  the  genuine  and  manly  beauties 
of  good  writing,  are  always  ready  to  be  caught  by  the  mere 
glare  of  language  ;  and  when  they  come  to  fpeak  in  public, 
or  to  compofe,  have  no  other  ftandard  on  which  to  form  them- 
felves,  except  what  chances  to  be  fafhionable  and  popular,  how- 
corrupted  foever,  or  erroneous,  that  may  be. 

But  as  there  are  many  who  have  no  fuch  objects  as  either 
compofition  or  public  fpeaking  in  view,  let  us  next  confider 
what  advantages  may  be  derived  by  them,  from  fuch  ftudies 
as  form  the  fubjeft  of  thefe  Lectures.  To  them,  rhetoric  is 
not  fo  much  a  praftical  art  as  a  fpeculative  fcience  •,  and  the 
fame  inftruclions  which  affift  others  in  compofing,  will  affift 
them  in  judging  of,  and  relifliing,  the  beauties  of  compofition. 
Whatever  enables  genius  to  execute  well,  will  enable  tafte  to 
criticife  juftly. 

"When  we  name  criticifing,  prejudices  may  perhaps  arife,, 
of  the  fame  kind  with  thofc  which  I  mentioned  before  with 
refpe£l  to  rhetoric.  As  rhetoric  has  been  fometimes  thought 
to  fignify  nothing  more  than  the  fcholaftic  ftudy  of  words,, 
and  phrafes,  and  tropes,  fo  criticifm  has  been  confidcred  as. 
merely  the  art  of  finding  faults  ;  as  the  frigid  application  of" 
certain  technical  terms,  by  means  of  which  perfons  are  taught 
to  cavil  and  cenfure  in  a  learned  manner.  But  this  is  the  criti-* 
cifm  of  pedants  only.  True  criticifm  is  a  liberal  and  humane 
art.  It  is  the  offspring  of  good  fenfe  and  refined  tafte.  It 
aims  at  acquiring  a  juft  difcernment  of  the  real  merit  of  au- 
thors. It  promotes  a  lively  relifli  of  their  beauties,  while  it 
pveferves  us  from  that  blind  and  implicit  veneration  which 
would  confound  their  beauties  and  faults  in  our  efteem.  It 
teaches  us,  in  a  word,  to  admire  and  to  blame  with  judgment, 
and  not  to  follow  the  crowd  blindly. 

In 


Lect.  I.         I  N  T  R  O  D  U  C  T  I  O  N*.  7 

In  an  age  when  works  of  genius  and  literature  are  fo  fre- 
■tjuently  the  fubjetls  of  difcourfe,  when  every  one  ere£ls  him- 
felf  intOr  a  judge,  and  when  wc  can  hardly  mingle  in  polite 
ibciety  without  bearing  fome  {hare  in  fuch  diicuffions  ;  (ludies 
qf  this  kind,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted,  will  appear  to  derive  part 
of  their  importance  from  the  ufe  to  which  they  may  be  appli- 
ed in  furniihing  materials  for  thofe  fafliionable  topics  of  dif- 
courfe, 3nd  thereby  enabling  us  to  fupport  a  proper  rank  in 
fecial  life. 

But  I  fhould  be  foirry  if  we  could  not  reft  the  merit  of  fuch 
(ludies  on  fomewhat  of  folid  and  intrinfical  ufe,  independent 
of  appearance  and  fhow.  The  exercife  of  tafte  and  of  found 
criticifm,  is  in  truth  one  of  the  moft  improving  employments 
of  the  underflanding.  To  apply  the  principles  of  good  fenfe 
to  compofitiou  and  difcourfe  ;  to  examine  what  is  beautiful, 
and  why  it  i3  fo  ;  to  employ  ourfelves  in  diftinguiQiing  accu- 
rately between  the  fpecious  and  the  folid,  betwe.en  afFedled  and 
natural  ornament,  muft  certainly  improve  us  not  a  little  in  the 
moft  valuable  p^rt  of  all  philofophy,  the  plulofophy  of  human 
•nature.  For  fuch  difquifitions  are  very  intimately  connefSled 
with  the  knowledge  of  ourfelves.  They  neceiTafily  lead  us  to 
reflect  on  the  operations  of  the  imagination,  and  the  movements 
of  the  heart  ;  and  increafe  our  acquaintance  with  fome  of  the 
moft  refined  feelings  which  belong  to  our  frame. 

.Logical  and  Ethical  difquifitions  move  in  a  higher  fphcre  ; 
and  are  converfant  with  objedls  of  a  more  fevere  kind  ;  the 
progrefs  of  the  undeiftanding  in  its  fearch  after  knowledge, 
and  the  direftion  of  the  will  in  the  proper  purfuit  of  good.  In 
thefe  they  ppjj)!:  out  to  man  the  improvement  of  his  nature  as 
an  intelligent  being  ;  and  his  duties  as  the  fubje6t  of  moral  ob- 
ligation. Belles  Lettres  and  criticifm  chiefly  confider  him  as 
a  Being  endo\yed  with  tljofe  powers  of  tafte  and  imagination, 
v/hich  were  intended  to  embellifli  his  mind,  and  to  fupply  him 
with  rational  and  ufeful  entertainment.  They  open  a  field  of 
inveftigation  peculiar  to  themfelves.  All  that  relates  to  beauty, 
harmony,  grandeur,  and  elegance  ;  all  that  can  foothe  the  mind, 
gratify  the  fancy,  or  move  the  afFe£lions,  belongs  to  their  prov- 
ince. They  prcfent  human  nature  under  a  different  afpetl 
^iam  that  which  it  alTumss  to  the  view  of  other  fcienccs.     They 

bring 


8  INTRODUCTION.  Lect.  L 

bring  to  light  various  fprings  of  adlion  which  without  their  aid 
might  have  pafled  unobferved  ;  and  which,  though  of  a  deli- 
cate nature,  frequently  exert  a  powerful  influence  on  feverai 
departments  of  human  life. 

Such  ftudies  have  alfo  this  peculiar  advantage,  that  they  ex- 
ercife  our  reafon  without  fatiguing  it.  They  lead  to  inquiries 
acute,  but  not  painful  ;  profound,  but  not  dry  nor  abftrufe. 
They  fti-ew  flowers  in  the  path  of  fcience  ;  and  while  they  keep 
the  mind  bent,  in  fome  degree,  and  aftive,  they  relieve  it  at  the 
fame  time  from  that  more  toilfome  labour  to  which  it  mufl: 
fubmit  in  the  acquifition  of  neceflary  erudition,  or  the  invefli- 
gation  of  abftraft  truth. 

The  cultivation  of  tafte  is  farther  recommended  by  the  hap- 
py etFe£ls  which  it  naturally  tends  to  produce  on  human  life. 
The  mofl:  bufy  man,  in  the  moft  active  fphere,  cannot  be  al- 
ways^ occupied  by  bufinefs.  Men  of  ferious  profeffions  cannot 
always  be  on  the  ftretch  of  ferious  thought.  Neither  can  the 
moft  gay  and  flourifhing  fituations  of  fortune  afford  any  man 
the  power  of  filling  all  his  hours  with  pleafure.  Life  muft  al- 
ways languifh  in  the  hands  of  the  idle.  It  will  frequently  lan- 
guifli  even  in  the  hands  of  the  bufy,  if  they  have  not  fome  em- 
ployment fubfidiary  to  that  which  forms  their  main  purfuit. 
How  then  (hall  thefe  vacant  fpaces,  thofe  unemployed  intervals, 
wliich,  more  or  lefs,  occur,  in  the  life  of  every  one,  be  filled 
up  ?  How  can  we  contrive  to  difpofe  of  them  in  any  way  that 
fliall  be  more  agreeable  in  itfelf,  or  more  confonant  to  the  dig- 
nity of  the  human  mind,  than  in  the  entertainments  of  tafte, 
and  the  ftudy  of  polite  literature  .''  He  who  is  fo  happy  as  to 
have  acquired  a  reliftj  for  thefe,  has  always  at  hand  an  innocent 
and  irreproachable  amufement  for  his  leifure  hours,  to  fave 
him  from  the  danger  of  many  a  pernicious  pafllon.  He  is  not 
in  hazard  of  being  a  burden  to  himfelf.  He  is  not  obliged  to 
fly  to  low  company,  or  to  court  the  riot  of  loofe  pleafures,  in 
order  to  cure  the  tedioufnefs  of  exiftence. 

Providence  feems  plainly  to  have  pointed  out  this  ufeful  pur- 
pofe  to  which  the  pleafures  of  tafte  may  be  applied,  by  inter- 
pofing  them  in  a  middle  ftation  between  the  pleafures  of  fenfe, 
and  thofe  of  pure  intellcol.  We  were  not  defigned  to  grovel 
always  among  objects  lb  low  as  the  former  j  nor  are  we  capa- 
ble 


LtcT.I.  INTRODUCTION.  ^ 

ble  of  dwelling  conftantly  in  fo  higli  a  region  as  the  latter.  The 
pleafures  of  tafle  refrefti  the  mind  after  the  toils  of  the  intel- 
le6l,  and  the  labours  of  abllraft  ftudy  ;  and  they  gradually 
raife  it  above  the  attachments  of  fenfe,  and  prepare  it  for  the 
enjoyments  of  virtue. 

So  confonant  is  this  to  experience,  that  in  the  education  of 
youth,  no  objeiSl  has  in  every  age  appeared  more  important  to 
wife  men,  than  to  tin£bure  them  early  with  a  relifh  for  the  en- 
tertainments of  tafle.  The  tranfition  is  commonly  made  with 
eafe  from  thefe  to  the  difcharge  of  the  higher  and  more  import- 
ant duties  of  life.  Good  hopes  may  be  entertained  of  thofe 
whofe  minds  have  this  liberal  and  elegant  turn.  Many  virtues 
may  be  grafted  upon  it.  Whereas  to  be  entirely  devoid  of 
relifh  for  eloquence,  poetry,  or  any  of  the  fine  arts,  is  juftly 
conflirued  to  be  an  unpromlfing  fymptom  of  youth  5  and 
ralfes  fufpiclons  of  their  being  prone  to  low  gratifications,  or 
deftined  to  drudge  in  the  more  vulgar  and  illiberal  purfuits 
of  life. 

There  arc  indeed  few  good  difpofitlons  of  any  kind  with 
which  the  improvement  of  tafle  is  not  more  or  lefs  connected. 
A  cultivated  tafte  increafes  fenfibillty  to  all  the  tender  and  hu- 
mane palTions,  by  giving  them  frequent  exercife  ;  while  it  tends 
to  weaken  the  more  violent  and  fierce  emotions. 

Ingenuas  didiciffe  fideliter  artes 


Emollit  mores,  nee  finit  effe  feros.* 

The  elevated  fentiments  and  high  examples  which  poetry, 
eloquence  and  hiftory  are  often  bringing  under  our  view,  nat- 
urally tend  to  nourifli  in  our  minds  public  fplrit,  the  love  of 
glory,  contempt  of  external  fortune,  and  the  admiration  of  what 
is  truly  Illuftrious  and  great. 

I  will  not  go  fo  far  as  to  fay  that  the  improvement  of  tafte 
and  of  virtue  Is  the  fame  ;  or  that  they  may  always  be  expeft- 
ed  to  co-exift  in  an  equal  degree.  More  powerful  corre<!^ives 
than  tafte  can  apply,  are  neceflary  for  reforming  the  corrupt 
propenfities  which  too  frequently  prevail  among  mankind.  Ele- 
gant fpeculatlons  are  fometlmes  found  to  float  on  the  furface 
of  the  mind,  while  bad  paflions  pofiefs  the  interior  regions  of 
C  the 

•  Thefc  polilVd  arts  have  liumaniz'd  mankinJ, 
Softcn'4  the  rude,  anJ  calm'd  the  boift'rouj  miad. 


lo  INTRODUCTION.  Lect.I. 

the  heart.  At  the  fame  time,  this  cannot  but  be  admhted,  that 
the  exercife  of  tafle  is,  hi  its  nati\x  tendency,  moral  and  putrify- 
ing.  From  reading  the  mod  admired  productions  of  genius, 
whether  in  poetry  or  profc,  ahnofh  every  one  rifes  with  fome 
good  imprcihons  left  on  his  mind  ;  and  though  thefe  may  not 
always  be  durable,  they  are  at  leaft  to  be  ranked  among  the 
means  of  difpofmg  the  heart  to  virtue.  One  thing  is  certain, 
and  I  fhall  hereafter  have  occafion  to  illuftrate  it  more  fully, 
that,  without  poflcfrmg  the  virtuous  af}e<flions  in  a  ftrong  degree, 
no  man  can  attain  eminence  in  the  fublime  parts  of  eloquence. 
He  mufl  feel  v/hat  a  good  man  feels,  if  he  expecls  greatly  to 
move  or  to  interefl  mankind.  They  are  the  ardent  fentiments 
of  honour,  virtue,  magnanimity,  and  public  fpirit,  that  only 
can  kindle  that  fire  of  genius,  and  call  up  into  the  mind  thofe 
high  ideas,  which  attract  the  admiration  of  ages  ;  and  if  this 
fpirit  be  neceflary  to  produce  the  moft  diftinguifhed  efforts  of 
eloquence,  it  mud  be  neceflary  alfo  to  our  relifhing  them  with 
proper  tafle  and  feeling.  \ 

On  thefe  general  topies  I  fhall  dwell  no  longer  ;  but  pro- 
ceed dire^lly  to  the  confideration  of  the  fubje^bs  which  ai-e  to 
employ  the  following  Le£tures.  They  divide  themfelves  into 
five  parts.  Firft,  fome  introductory  diflei'tations  on  the  na- 
ture of  tafte,  and  upon  the  fources  of  its  pleafurcs.  Secondly, 
the  confideration  of  language  :  Thirdly,  of  flyle  :  Fourthly, 
of  eloquence,  properly  fo  called,  or  public  fpeaking  in  its  dif- 
ferent kinds.  Laftly,  a  critical  examination  of  the  mod  diftin- 
guifhed fpecies  of  compofition,  both  in  profe  and  verfe. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE         II. 


AS        T        E. 


Ti 


HE  nature  of  the  prefent  undertaking  leads  me  to 
begin  -with  fome  inquiries  concerning  Tafte,  as  it  is  this  facul- 
ty which  is  always  appealed  to,  iu  difquifitions  concerning  the 
merit  of  difcourfe  and  writing. 

There  are  few  fubje£ls  on  which  men  talk  more  loofely 
and  indiflin6ily  than  on  Tafte  ;  few  which  it  is  more  diflicult 
to  explain  with  precifion  j  and  none  which  in  this  Courfe  of 
Ledlures  will  appear  more  dry  or  abflraft.  What  I  have  to 
fay  on  the  fubje£l  fliall  be  in  the  following  order.  I  (hall  firft; 
explain  the  Nature  of  Tafte  as  a  power  or  faculty  in  the  hu- 
man mind.  I  fhall  next  confidcr  how  far  it  is  an  improveablc 
faculty.  I  fiiall  fliew  the  fources  of  its  improvement,  and  the 
charadlers  of  tafte  in  its  moft  perfe£l  ftate.  I  fliall  then  ex- 
amine the  various  fluctuations  to  which  it  is  liable,  and  inquire 
whether  there  be  any  ftandard  to  which  v/e  can  bring  the  dif- 
ferent taftcs  of  men,  in  order  to  diftinguifli  the  corrupted  from 
the  true. 

Tafte  2Tiay  be  denned  "  The  power  of  receiving  pleafure 
**  from  the  beauties  of  nature  and  of  art."  The  firll  queftion 
that  occurs  concerning  It  is,  whether  it  is  to  be  confidered  as 
an  internal  fenfe,  or  as  an  exertion  of  reafon  ?  Reafon  is  a  very 
general  term  ;  but  if  we  underftand  by  it,  that  power  of  the 
mind  which  in  fpeculatlve  matters  difcovers  truth,  and  in  prac- 
tical matters  judges  of  the  fitnefs  of  means  to  an  end,  I  ap- 
prehend the  queftion  may  be  eafily  anfwered.  For  nothing 
can  be  more  clear,  than  that  Tafte  is  not  refolvablc  into  any  fuch 
operation  of  Reafon.  It  is  not  merely  through  a  difcovery  of  the 
underftanding  or  a  deduCtlon  of  argument,  that  the  mind  re- 
ceives .pleafure  from  a  beautiful  profpe^  or  a  fine  poem.     Such 

obje£ts 


12  TASTE.  Lect.il 

objeOs  often  ftrlke  us'intuitlvcly,  and  make  a  flrong  impreflion, 
when  we  are  unable  to  alTign  the  reafons  of  our  being  pleafed. 
They  fometimes  ftrikc  in  the  fame  manner  the  philofopher  and 
the  peafant  ;  the  boy  and  the  man.  Hence  the  faculty  by 
ivhich  we  rehfli  fuch  beauties,  feems  more  akin  to  a  feel- 
ing of  fenfe,  than  to  a  procefs  of  the  underftanding  ;  and  ac- 
cordingly from  an  external  fenfe  it  has  borrowed  its  name  ; 
that  fenfe  by  which  we  receive  and  diflinguifh  the  pleafures 
of  food  having,  in  feveral  languages,  given  rife  to  the 
\vord  Tafte,  in  the  metaphorical  meaning  under  M'hich  we  now 
confider  it.  However,  as  in  all  fubje£ts  which  regard  the  op* 
erations  of  the  mind,  the  inaccurate  ufe  of  words  is  to  be  care- 
fully avoided,  it  muft  not  be  inferred  from  what  I  have  faid, 
that  reafon  Is  excluded  from  the  exertions  of  Tafte.  Though 
Tafte,  beyond  doubt,  be  ultimately  founded  on  a  certain  natural 
and  inftinCtive  fenfibility  to  beauty,  yet  reafon,  as  I  fhall  fliew 
hereafter,  affifts  Tafte  in  many  of  its  operations,  and  ferves  to 
enlarge  its  power.* 

Tafte,  in  the  fenfe  in  which  I  have  explained  it,  is  a  faculty 
common  in  fome  degree  to  all  men.  Nothing  that  belongs  to 
human  nature  is  more  univerfal  than  the  relifli  of  beauty  of  one 
kind  or  other  ;  of  what  is  orderly,  proportioned,  grand,  har- 
monious, new,  or  fprightly.  In  children,  the  rudiments  of 
Tafte  difcover  themfelvcs  very  early  in  a  thoufand  inftances  v 
in  their  fondnefs  for  regular  bodies,  their  admiration  of  pictures 
and  ftatues,  and  imitations  of  all  kinds ;  and  their  ftrong  attach- 
ment to  whatever  is  new  or  marvellous.  The  m.oft  ignorant 
peafants  are  delighted  with  ballads  and  tales,  and  are  ftruck 
with  the  beautiful  appearances  of  nature  in  the  earth  and 
heavens.  Even  in  the  deferts  of  America,  where  human  nature 
ihews  itfelf  in  its  moft  uncultivated  ft  ate,  the  favages  have  their 
ornaments  of  drefs,  their  war  and  their  death  fongg,  their 
harangues,  and  their  orators.  We  muft  thei'cfore  conclude  the 
principles  of  Tafte  to  be  deeply  founded  in  the  human  mind. 

It 

*  See  Dr.  Gerard's  Efuiy  on  Tade. — D'Alembcrt's  RcflccElions  oo  the  ufi 
and  abufe  of  philofophy  in  matters  wliich  relate  to  Tafte. — Rcf  exioiis  Cri- 
tiques fur  la  pfK'fic  et  fur  la  peiiiturc,  'J'om.H.  ch.  aa — jr.  Elements  of  Criti- 
cifm,  chap.  aj. —  Mr.  Hume's  Eifay  on  the  Staodard  of  Tafte. — Introdu<5tioB 
to  the  Efl'giy  on  the  Sublime  and  BcautifuL 


Lect.II.  T      a      S      T      H.  13 

It  is  no  lefs  eflential  to  man  to  have  feme  difcernment  of  beauty, 
than  it  is  to  poflefs  the  attributes  of  reafon  and  of  fpeech.* 

But  although  none  be  wholly  devoid  of  this  faculty,  yet  the 
degrees  in  which  it  is  poflefled  are  widely  different.  In  fome 
men  only  the  feeble  glimmerings  of  Tafle  appear  ;  the  beauties 
which  they  relifli  are  of  the  coarfeft  kind  ;  and  of  thefe  they 
have  but  a  weak  and  confufed  impreflion  ;  while  in  others, 
Tafte  rifes  to  an  acute  difcernment,  and  a  lively  enjoyment  of 
the  mofl  refined  beauties.  In  general,  we  may  obferve,  that 
in  the  powers  and  pleafures  of  Tafte,  there  is  a  more  remarka- 
ble inequality  among  men  than  is  ufually  found  in  point  of 
common  fenfe,  reafon,  and  judgment.  The  conftitution  of 
our  nature  in  this,  as  in  all  other  refpefts,  difcovers  admirable 
wifdom.  In  the  diftribution-of  thofe  talents  which  are  neceffi- 
ry  for  man's  well-being,  Nature  hath  made  lefs  diftindlioii 
among  her  children.  But  in  the  diftribution  of  thofe  which 
belong  only  to  the  ornamental  part  of  life,  flie  hath  bellow- 
ed her  favours  with  more  frugality.  She  hath  both  fown  the 
feeds  more  fparingly  ;  and  rendered  a  higher  culture  iequifite 
for  bringing  them  to  perfefllon. 

This  inequality  of  Taile  among  men  is  owing,  without  doubt. 
In  part,  to  the  different  frame  of  their  natures  ;  to  nicer  or- 
gans, and  finer  internal  powers,  with  which  fome  are  endowed 
beyond  others.  But,  if  it  be  owing  in  part  to  nature,  it  is  ow- 
ing 

•  On  the  fubjecfl:  of  Tafte  confiderfid  as  a  power  or  faculty  of  the  mind,  much 
lefs  is  to  be  found  among  the  ancient,  than  among  the  modern  rhetorical  and 
critical  writers.  The  following  remarkable  paii'agc  in  Cicero  ferves,  however, 
to  flicw,  that  his  ideas  on  this  Iv.bjccft  agree  perfectly  -with  what  has  been  faid 
above.  He  is  fpeaking  of  the  l)eauties  of  Qylc  and  numbers.  "  llhid  autem 
"  ncqiiis  admirctiir  quonam  modo  ha2c  viiigiis  impcritonim  inauditndo,  notet ; 
*'  cum  in  omni  gtncrc,  turn  in  hoc  ipfo,  magna  quxdam  eft  vis,  incrcdibilifquc 
"  nature.  Omnes  enim  tacito  qnodam  fcnfu,  fine  ulia  arte  aut  rationc,  qusc 
"  fmt  in  artibns  de  rationibus  rctla  et  prava  dijudicant  :  idque  cum  faciunt 
"  in  picflijris,  ct  in  fignis,  ct  in  aliis  operibus,  ad  quorum  intclligentiam  a  natura, 
"  minus  lial>ent  inftrunuiiti,  turn  multo  oftcndunt  magis  in  verbornm,  numer- 
"  orum,  vocumquf  judicio  ;  quod  ta  funt  in  communibus  in/ixa  fenlibus  ;  neque 
"  earum  reruui  iiuthquam  tunditus  natura  voluit  cfle  cxpertem."     Cic.  dc  Orat. 

lib.  iii.  cap.  jo.  Edit.  (Iruteri. (^lindtilian  fctms  to  include  Tafte  (for  which, 

in  the  fcnle  which  wc  now  give  to  that  word,  the  ancient.?  appear  to  have  had 
no  diftinet  name)  under  whicli  he  calls  judicium.  "  Locus  de  judicio,  mea 
"  quidem  opinione  adco  partibus  liujus  opcris  omnibus  conne<flus  ac  miftuscft, 
«'  ut  nc  a  fentcntiis  quidem  aut  verbis  faltem  fingulis  poilit  fcparari,  nee  magis 
"  arte  traditur  quam  guflus  aut  odor. — — Ut  contraiia  vitcmus  ct  communis, 
"  ne  quid  in  eloqucndo  corruptum  obfcurumque  lit,  rcfcratui'  oportC.  .^'J  fcn- 
•'  fus  i^ui  non  doctnlur."     Inpituu  lib.  vi,  cap.  3.  Edit.  Obrcchti. 


14  TASTE.  Lect.IT. 

ing  to  education  and  culture  flill  more.  Tlie  illuRratlon  of 
this  leads  to  my  next  remark  on  this  fubjecfl:,  that  Tafte  is  a 
moft  improveable  taculty,  if  there  be  any  fuch  in  human  na- 
ture j  a  remark  which  gives  great  encouragement  to  fuch  a 
courfe  of  ftudy  as  we  are  now  propofing  to  purfue.  Of  the 
truth  of  this  affertion  we  may  eafily  be  convinced,  by  only  re- 
selling on  that  immenfe  fuperiority  which  education  and  im- 
provement give  to  civilized,  above  barbarous  nations,  in  refine- 
inent  of  Tafle  ;  and  on  the  fuperiority  which  they  give  in  the 
fame  nation  to  thofe  who  have  ftudied  the  liberal  arts,  above 
the  rude  and  untaught  vulgar.  The  difference  is  fo  great,  that 
there  is  perhaps  no  one  particular  in  which  thefe  two  clafles 
of  men  are  fo  far  removed  from  each  other,  as  in  refpcLi  of 
the  powers  and  the  pleafures  of  Tafle  :  and  affuredly  for  this 
difference  no  other  general  caufe  can  be  afFigned,  but  culture 
and  education.  I  fliall  now  proceed  to  fliew  what  the  means 
are  by  which  Tafle  becomes  fo  remarkably  fufceptible  of  cul- 
tivation and  progrcfs. 

Reflect  firfl  upon  that  great  law  of  ouf  nature,  that  exercife 
is  the  chief  fource  of  improvement  in  all  our  faculties.  This 
holds  both  in  our  bodily,  and  in  our  mental  powers.  It  holds 
even  in  our  external  fenfes  ;  althougli  tliefe  be  lefs  the  fubje6t 
of  cultivation  than  any  of  our  other  faculties.  We  fee  how 
acute  the  fenfes  become  in  perfons  whofe  trade  or  bufinefs  lead's 
to  nice  exertions  of  them.  Touch,  for  inflance,  becomes  infi- 
nitely more  exq^uifite  in  men  whofe  employment  requires  them 
to  examine  the  polifli  of  bodies,  than  it  is  in  ethers^  They 
who  deal  in  microfcopical  obfervations,  or  are  accuflomed  to 
engrave  on  precious  flones,  acquire  furpriiing  accuracy  of  fight 
in  difcerning  the  minuteft  ob]e6ls  ;  and  practice  in  attending 
to  dilfercnt  flavours  and  tafles  of  liquors,  wonderfully  improves 
the  power  of  diflinguifiiing  them,  and  of  tracing  their  compofi- 
tion.  Placing  internal  Tafle  therefore  on  the  footing  of  a  fim- 
ple  fenfe,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  frequent  exercife,  and  curi- 
ous attention  to  its  proper  objects,  muft  greatly  heighten  its 
power.  Of  this  we  have  one  clear  proof  in  that  part  of  Tafle, 
which  is  called  an  ear  for  mufic.  Experience  every  day  fliews, 
that  nothing  is  more  improveable.  Only  the  fimpleft  and 
pjainefl  compofitions  are  relifhed  at  firft  ;  ufe  and  pra6tice  ex- 
tend our  pleafure  ;  teach  us  to  relifli  finer  melody,  and  by  de- 
grees 


Lect.II.  T      a      S      T      E.   <  15 

grees  enable  us  to  enter  into  the  intricate  and  compounded 
pleafures  of  harmony.  So  an  eye  for  the  beauties  of  painting 
is  never  all  at  once  acquired.  It  is  gradually  formed  by  being 
converfant  among  pictures,  and  ftudying  the  works  of  the  belt 
mafters. 

Precifely  in  the  fame  manner,  with  rcfpecl  to  the  beauty  of 
oompofition  and  difcourfe,  attention  to  the  moll  approved  ma- 
dels,  ftudy  o-f  the  bed  authors,  comparifons  of  lower  and  high- 
er degrees  of  the  fame  beauties,  operate  towards  the  refinement 
of  Talle.  When  one  is  only  beginning  his  acquaintance  with 
works  of  genius,  the  fentiment  wliich  attends  them  is  obicurc 
and  confufed.  He  cannot  point  out  the  feveral  excellencies  or 
blemiflies  of  a  performance  which  he  pcrufes  ;  he  is  at  a  lofs 
on  what  to  reft  his  judgment ;  all  that  can  be  expected  is,  that 
he  fliould  tell  in  general  whether  he  be  pleafcd  or  not.  But 
allow  him  more  experience  in  v/orks  of  this  kind,  and  his  Tafte 
becomes  by  degrees  more  exa6l  and  enlightened.  He  begins 
to  perceive  not  only  the  characSteir  of  the  whole,  but  the  beau- 
ties and  defeats  of  each  part  ;  and  is  able  to  defcribe  the  pecu- 
liar qualities  which  he  praifes  or  blames.  The  mift  dilTipatess 
which  feemed  formerly  to  hang  over  the  obje£l:  ;  and  he  caa 
at  length  pronounce  firmly,  and  without  hefitation,  concern- 
ing it.  Thus  in  Tafte,  confidered  as  mere  feufibility,  exercife 
opens  a  great  fource  of  improvement. 

But  although  Tafte  be  ultimately  founded  on  fenfibility,  It 
jtiuft  not  be  confidered  as  inftinclive  fenfibility  alone.  Reafon 
and  good  fenfe,  as  I  before  hinted,  have  fo  extenfive  an  influence 
on  all  the  operations  and  decifions  of  Tafte,  that  a  tliorough 
good  Tafte  may  well  be  confidered  as  a  power  compounded  of 
natural  fenfibility  to  beauty,  and  of  improved  undcvftanding. 
In  order  to  be  fatisfied  of  this,  let  us  obferve,  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  produftions  of  geniuc  are  no  other  than  imlt;\tion$ 
of  nature  ;  rcprefentations  of  the  charaiSlers,  adlions,  or  man- 
ners of  men.  The  plcafure  we  receive  from  fuch  imitations 
or  rcprefentations  is  founded  on  mere  Tafte  :  but  to  judge 
whether  they  be  properly  executed,  belongs  to  the  underftand- 
ing,  wliich  compares  the  copy  with  the  original. 

In  reading,  for  inftance,  fuch  a  poem  as  the  ^Eneid,  a  great 
part  of  our  pleafure  arlfes  from  the  plan  or  ftory  being  well  con- 
du(^edj  and  all  tht;  parts  joined  together  with  probability  anJ 

due 


x<5  TASTE.  Lect.II, 

due  connexion  :  from  the  chara£lers  being  taken  from  nature, 
the  fentimcnts  being  fuited  to  the  chara£lers,  and  the  ftyle  to 
the  fentiments.  The  pleafure  which  arifes  from  a  poem  fo 
conduced,  is  felt  or  enjoyed  by  Tafte  as  an  internal  fenfe  ; 
but  the  difcovery  of  this  condutl  in  the  poem  is  owing  to  rea- 
fon  ;  and  the  more  that  reafon  enables  us  to  difcover  fuch  pro- 
priety in  the  conduct,  the  greater  will  be  our  pleafure.  We 
are  pleafed,  through  our  natural  fenfe  of  beauty.  Reafon  (hews 
us  why,  and  upon  what  grounds,  we  are  pleafed.  Wherever 
in  works  of  Tafte,  any  refemblance  to  nature  is  aimed  at  ; 
wherever  there  is  any  reference  of  parts  to  a  whole,  or  of 
means  to  an  end,  as  there  is  indeed  in  almoft  every  writing 
and  difcourfe,  there  the  underftanding  muft  always  have  a 
great  part  to  a6t. 

Here  then  is  a  wide  field  for  reafon's  exerting  Its  powers  in 
relation  to  the  obje6ls  of  Tafte,  particularly  with  refpe61:  to 
compofition,  and  works  of  genius ;  and  hence  arlfes  a  fecond 
and  a  very  confiderable  fource  of  the  improvement  of  Tafte, 
from  the  application  of  reafon  and  good  fenfe  to  fuch  produc- 
tions of  genius.  Spurious  beauties,  fuch  as  unnatural  charac- 
ters, forced  fentiments,  aiTeQed  ftyle,  may  pleafe  for  a  little  ; 
but  they  pleafe  only  bccaufe  their  oppofition  to  nature  and  to 
good  fenfe  has  not  been  examined,  or  attended  to.  Once  fhew 
how  nature  might  have  been  more  juftly  imitated  or  reprefent- 
ed ',  how  the  writer  might  have  managed  his  fubjecSl  to  great- 
er advantage  ■,  the  illufion  will  prefently  be  diffipated,  and  thofe 
falfe  beauties  will  pleafe  no  more. 

From  thefe  two  fources  then,  fir  ft,  the  frequent  exercife  of 
Tafte,  and  next  the  application  of  good  fenfe  and  reafon  to  the 
obje£ts  of  Tafte,  Tafte  as  a  power  of  the  mind  receives  its  im- 
provement. In  its  perfe£l  ftate,  it  is  undoubtedly  the  refult 
both  of  nature  and  of  art.  It  fuppofes  our  natural  kn^e  of 
beauty  to  be  refined  by  frequent  attention  to  the  moft  beauti- 
ful ob]e£l:s,  and  at  the  fame  time  to  be  guided  and  improved 
by  the  light  of  the  underftanding. 

I  muft  be  allowed  to  add,  that  as  a  found  head,  fo  likewife 
a  good  heart,  is  a  very  material  requifite  to  juft  Tafte.  ,  The 
moral  beauties  are  not  only  in  themfelves  fuperior  to  all  others, 
but  they  exert  an  influence,  either  more  near,  or  more  remote, 
on  a  great  variety  of  other  objeds  of  Tafte.    Wherever  the 

aQ-'et^ions, 


Lect.II.  taste.  rj 

affe£lions,  characflers,  or  jjdlions  of  men  arc  goncernecj,  (a.n4 
thefe  certainly  afford  the  noblefl;  fubject§  to  genius)  there  gajni 
be  neither  any  juil  or  affctling  defcriptiefii  of  them,  nor  any 
thorough  feeling  of  the  beauty  of  that  defcription,  without  our 
ppflefling  thevlrtuous  affections.  He  whofe  heart  is  indelicate  or 
hard,  he  who  has  no  admiration  of  what  is  truly  noble  or  praise- 
worthy, nor  the  proper  fynipathetic  fenfe  of  what  is  fpft  an4 
tender,  mud  have  a  very  imperfecl  reliih  of  the  higheft  beau»- 
tics  of  eloquence  and  poetry. 

The  chara<L1:ers  of  Tafte  when  brought  to  its  moft  perfe£k 
ftate,  are  all  reducible  to  two,  Delicacy  and  Correclnefs.    •' 

Delicacy  of  Tafte  refpetls  principally  the  perfe£tion  of  that 
natural  fenfibility  on  which  Tafle  is  founded.  It  implies  thofe 
finer  organs  or  powers  which  enable  us  to  difcover  beauties 
that  lie  hid  from  a  vulgar  eye.  One  may  have  ftrong  fenfibil- 
ity, and  yet  be  deficient  in  delicate  Tafle.  ;  He  may  be  deeply 
impreffed  by  fuch  beauties  as  he  perceives  ;  but  he  perceives 
only  what  is  in  fome  degree  coarfe,  what  is  bold  and  palpable  ; 
while  chaffer  and  fimpler  ornaments  efcape  his  notice.  In  this 
ftate,  Tafte  generally  exifts  among  rude  and  unrefined  nations. 
But  a  perfon  of  delicate  Tafte  both  feels  ftrongly,  and  feels 
accurately.  He  fees  diftin£l:ions  ajiid  differences  where  others 
fee  none  j  the  moft  latent  beauty  does  not  efcape  him,  and  he 
is  fenfible  of  the  fmalicft  blemifli.  Delicacy  of  Tafte  is  judged 
of  by  the  fame  marks  that  we  ufe  in  judging  of  the  delicacy 
of  an  external  fenfe.  As  the  goodnefs  of  the  palate  is  not 
tried  by  ftrong  flavours,  but  by  a  mixture  of  ingredients,  where, 
notwithftanding  the  confufion,  we  remain  fenfible  of  each  ;  in 
lik«  manner  delicacy  of  internal  Xafte  appeals,  by  a  quick  antj 
lively  fenfibility  to  its  fineft,  moft  compounded,  or  moft  latent 
objects. 

Correclnefs  of  Tafte  refpecis  chiefly  the  improvement  which 
that  faculty  receives  through  its  connexion  with  the  widerftand- 
ing.  A  man  of  correal  Tafte  is  one  who  is  nqx'er  impofed  pn 
by  counterfeit  beauties  ;  who  carries  always  in  his  mind  th^t 
ftandard  of  good  fenfe  which  he  employs  in  judging  of  every 
thing.  He  eftimates  with  propriety  the  comparative  merit  of 
the  feveral  beauties  which  he  meets  with  in  any  work  of  ge- 
nius ;  refers  them  to  their  proper  claffes  -,  affigns  the  principles, 
as  far  as  they  can  be  traced,  whence  their  power  of  pleafin? 

D  flows } 


i8  TASTE.  Lect.IL 

flows  j  and  Is  pleafed  himfelf  precifely  in  that  degree  in  which 
he  ought,  and  no  more. 

It  is  true,  that  thefe  two  qualities  of  Tafle,  Delicacy  and 
CorredVnefs,  mutually  imply  each  other.  No  Tafte  can  be  ex- 
quifitely  delicate  without  being  corre6l  ;  nor  can  be  thorough- 
ly.correal  without  being  delicate.  But  ftill  a  predominancy  of 
one  or  other  quality  in  the  mixture  is  often  vifible.  The  power 
of  Delicacy  i«  chiefly  feen  in  difcerning  the  true  merit  of  a  work  ; 
the  power  of  Corre£lnefs,  in  rejedling  falfe  pretenfions  to  merit. 
Delicacy  leans  more  to  feeling  ;  Corre£tnefs,  more  to  reafon 
and  judgment.  The  former  is  more  the  gift  of  nature-,  the 
latter,  more  the  product  of  culture  and  art.  Among  the  an- 
cient critics,  Longinus  poflefTed  moll  Delicacy ;  Aridotle,  mofl: 
Corre£lnefs.  Among  the  moderns,  Mr.  Addifon  is  a  high  ex- 
ample of  delicate  Tafle  :  Dean  Swift,  had  he  written  on  the 
fubje<Sl  of  criticifm,  would  perhaps  have  afforded  the  example 
of  a  correct  one. 

Having  viewed  Tafle  in  its  mofl  improved  and  perfe£l  flate,' 
I  come  next  to  confider  its  deviations  from  that  fLate,  the  fluc- 
tuations and  changes  to  which  it  is  liable  ;  and  to  inquire  wheth- 
er, in  the  midfl  of  thefe,  there  be  any  means  of  diflinguifliing 
a  true  from  a  corrupted  Tafle.  This  brings  us  to  the  mofl 
difficult  part  of  our  tafk.  For  it  mull  be  acknowledged,  that 
no  principle  of  the  human  mind  is,  in  its  operations,  more  fluc- 
tuating and  capricious  than  Tafle.  Its  variations  have  been  fo 
great  and  frequent,  as  to  create  a  fufpicion  with  fome,  of  its 
being  merely  arbitrary  j  grounded  on  no  foundation,  afcertain- 
able  by  no  flandard,  but  wholly  dependent  on  changing  fancy  j 
the  confequence  of  which  would  be,  that  all  fludies  or  regular 
inquiries  concerning  the  obje£ls  of  Tafle  were  vain.  In  archi- 
tedlure,  the  Grecian  models  were  ;ong  efleemed  the  mofl  per- 
fe£;i.  In  fuccecding  ages,  the  Gothic  architecture  alone  prevail- 
ed, and  afterwards  the  Grecian  Tafte  revived  in  all  its  vigour, 
and  engroffcd  the  public  admiration.  In  eloquence  and  poetry, 
the  Afiatics  at  no  time  reliflied  any  thing  but  what  was  full  uf 
ornament,  and  fplendid  in  a  degree  that  we  would  denominate 
gawdy  ;  whilfl  the  Greeks  admired  only  chaflc  and  finiple 
beauties,  and  defpifed  the  Afiatic  oflcntation.  In  our  own 
country,  how  many  writings  that  were  greatly  extolled  two  or 
three  centuries  ago,  are  now  fallen  into  entire  difrepute  and 

oblivion  ? 


it 


Lect.II.  taste.  f^ 

oblivion  ?  Without  going  back  to  remote  inftances,  how  very 
different  is  the  Tafle  of  poetry  which  prevails  in  Great  Britain 
iiowy  from  what  prevailed  there  no  longer  ago  than  the  reign 
of  king  Charles  II.  which  the  authors  too  of  that  time  deemed 
an  Auguftan  age  :  when  nothing  was  in  vogue  but  an  afFe£tcd 
brilliancy  of  wit ;  when  the  fnnplc  majefty  of  Milton  was 
overlooked,  and  Paradife  Loft  almoft  entirely  unknown  ;  when 
Cowley's  laboured  and  unnatural  conceits  were  admired  as  the 
very  quinteflence  of  genius  j  Waller's  gay  fprightlinefs  was 
miilaken  for  the  tender  fplrit  of  Love  poetry  ;  and  fuch  wri* 
ters  as  Suckling  and  Etheridge  were  held  in  efteem  for  dramat- 
ic compofition  ? 

The  queftion  is,  what  conclufion  we  are  to  form  from  fucK 
inftances  as  thefe  ?  Is  there  any  thing  that  can  be  called  a  ftand- 
ard  of  Tafte,  by  appealing  to  which  we  may  diftinguifli  be- 
tween a  good  and  a  bad  Tafte  ?  Or,  is  there  in  truth  no  fuch 
diftin<flion  ;  and  are  we  to  hold  that,  according  to  the  proverb, 
there  is  no  difputing  of  Taftes  ;  but  that  whatever  pleafes  is 
right,  for  that  reafon  that  it  does  pleafe  ?  This  is  the  queftion, 
and  a  very  nice  and  fubtile  one  it  Is,  which  we  are  noiv  to  difcufsJ 

I  begin  by  obferving,  that  if  there  be  no  fuqh  thing  as  any 
ftandard  of  Tafte,  this  confequence  muft  immediately  follow, 
that  aU  Taftes  are  equally  good ;  a  pofition,  which,,  though  it 
may  pafs  unnoticed  in  flight  matters,  and  when  we  fpeak  of 
the  leflcr  differences  among  the  Taftes  of  men,  yet  when  we 
apply  it  to  the  extremes,  its  abfurdity  becomes  glaring.  For 
is  there  any  one  who  will  ferioufly  maintain  that  the  Tafte  of 
a  Hottentot  or  a  Laplander  is  as  delicate  and  as  correft  as  that 
of  a  Longinus  or  an  Addifon  ?  or,  that  he  can  be  charged  with 
«io  defeft  or  incapacity  who  thinks  a  common  nqws-wrlter  as 
excellent  an  hlftorlan  as  Tacitus  ?  As  it  would  be;  held  down- 
right extravagance  to  talk  In  this  manner,  we  are  led  unavoid- 
ably to  this  conclufion,  that  there  is  fome  foundation  for  the 
preference  of  one  man's  Tafte  to  that  of  another',  ot,  that  there 
is  a  good  and  a  bad,  right  and  a  wrong  In  Tafte,  as  in  other 
things. 

But  to  prevent  mlftakcs  on  this  fubje£t,  It  is  nccefTary  to  ob- 
fcrve  next,  that  the  divcrfity  of  Taftes  which  prevails  among 
mankind,  does  not  in  every  cafe  infer  corruption  of  Tafte,  or 
oblige  us  to  feek  for  fome  ftandard  in  aider  to  detcriTjine  wh© 

arc 


20  TASTE.  Lect.II. 

are  in  the  right.  TheTaftes  of  men  may  differ  very  confider- 
ably  as  to  their  objc£l:,  and  yet  none  of  them  be  wrOng.  One 
tnzn  reUfiies  poetry  moft  ;  another  takes  pleafure  in  nothing 
but  hiftory.  One  prefers  comedy  ;  another,  tragedy.  One 
admires  the  fimple  j  another,  the  ornamented  ftyle.  The 
young  are  amufcd  with  gay  and  fprightJy  comnofitions.  The 
elderly  are  more  entertained  \viththofe  of  a  graver  caft.  Some 
nations  delight  in  bold  piclures  of  manners,  and  flrong  repre- 
fentations  of  palhon.  Others  incline  to  more  correal  and  regu- 
lar elegance  both  in  defcription  and  fentiment.  ^Though  all 
differ,  yet  all  pitch  upon  fome  one  beauty  which  peculiarly 
fuits  their  turn  of  mind  ;  and  therefore  no  one  has  a  title  to 
Condemn  the  reft.  It  is  not  in  matters  of  T afte,  as  in  quef- 
tions  of  mere  reafon,  where  there  is  but  one  conclufion  that 
<an  be  true,  and  all  the  reft  are  erroneous.  Truth,  which  is 
ihe  object  of  reafon,'  is  one;  beauty,  which  is  the  obje£t  of 
Tadc,  is  manifold.  Tafce  therefore  admits  of  latitude  and  di- 
Verfity  of  objefts,  in  fufficient  con fiftcncy  with  goodnefs  Ox 
juflnefs  of  Tafte. 

But  the/l,  to  explain  this  matter  thoroughly,  I  niuft  obfervc 
farther,  that  this  admiffible  divcriity  of  Talles  can  only  have 
plaCe  where  the  objects  of  Tafte  are  different.  Where  it  is 
with  rcfpef£t  t6  the  fame  objcft  that  men  difagree,  when  one 
Condemns  that  as  ugly,  which  another  admires  as  highly  beauti- 
ful ;  then  it  iS  no  longer  di/erfity,  but  direft  oppofition  of 
Tafte  that  takes  place  j  and  therefore  one  muft  be  in  the  right,; 
and  another  in  the  wrong,  unlefs  that  abfurd  paradox  were  al- 
lowed to  hold,  that  all  Taftes  are  equally  good  and  true.  One 
illan  prefers  X^ifgil  to  Homer.  Suppofe  that  I,  on  the  othep 
hand,  admire  Homer  more  than  Virgil.  I  have  as  yet  no  reafon 
to'fay  that  our  Taftes  are  contradictory.  The  other  perfon  i& 
mod  ftruclq  with  the  elegance  and  tendernefs  which  are  the 
-Chara£teriftics  of  Virgil  j  I,  with  the  fimplicity'and  fire  of  Ho- 
mer.  As  long  as  neither  of  us  deny  that  both  Homer  and  VirgiJ 
have  great  beauties,  our  difference  falls  within  the  compafs  of 
that  diverfity  of  Taftes,  which  I  have  fticwn  to  be  natural  and 
allowable.  But  if  the  other  man  fhall  afiert  that  Homer  has  no, 
beauties  whatever  ;  that  he  holds  him  to  be  a  dull  and  fpiritlefs 
writer,  aind  that  he  would  as  foon  perufe  any  old  legend  of 
Knight-Errantry  as  the  Iliad  j  then  I  exclaim,  that  my  antag- 

onift 


LccT.II.  TASTE.  21 

onift  cither  Is  ^iDicl  of  all  Tafte,  or  that  his  Tafte  is  corrupted 
in  a  miferable  degree  ;  and  I  appeal  to  whatever  I  think  the 
itandard  of  Tafte,  to  Ihew  him  that  he  is  in  the  wrong. 

What  that  Randard  is,  to  which,  in  fuch  oppofitionof  Taftcs, 
we  are  obliged,  to  have  recourfe,  remains  to  be  traced.  A  ftand- 
ard  properly  fignifies,  that  which  is  of  fuch  undoubted  authority 
as  to  be  the  teft  of  other  things  of  the  fame  kind.  Thus  a  ftand- 
ard  weight  or  meafure,  is  that  which  is  appointed  by  law  to 
regulate  all  other  meafures  and  weights.  Thus  the  court  is 
faid  to  be  the  ftandard  of  good  breeding ;  and-the  fcripture,  of 
theological  truth. 

When  we  fay  that  nature  is  the  ftandard  of  Tafte,  we  lay 
down  a  principle  very  true  and  juft,  as  far  as  it  can  be  applied. 
There  is  no  doubt,  that  in  all  cafes  where  an  imitation  is  in- 
tended of  fome  obje<Sl  that  exifts  in  nature,  as  in  reprefentiiig 
human  chara6lcrs  or  actions,  conformity  to  nature  affords  a 
full  and  diftin6t  criterion  of  what  is  truly  beautiful.  Reafon 
hath  in  fOch  cafes  full  fcope  for  exerting  its  authority ;  for  ap- 
proving or  condemning ;  by  comparing  the  copy  with  the  orig- 
inal. But  there  are  innumerable  cafes  in  which  this  rule  can- 
not be  at  all  applied  i  and  conformity  to  nature,  is  an  expreflion 
frequently  ufed,  without  any  diftindl  or  determinate  meaning. 
We  muft  therefore  fearch  for  fomewhat  that  can  be  rendered 
jnore  clear  and  precife,  to  be  the  ftandard  of  Tafte. 

Tafte,  as  I  before  explained  it,  is  ultimately  founded  on  an 
internal  fenfe  of  beauty,  which  is  natural  to  men,  and  which, 
in  its  application  to  particular  objc<Si:s,  is  capable  of  being  guid- 
ed and  enlightened  by  roafou.  Now,  were  there  any  one  per- 
fon  whi'  poflelTed  in  full  perfctlion  all  the  powers  of  human 
nature,  whofe  internal  fenfes  were  in  every  inftance  exquifite 
and  juft,  and  whofe  reafon  was  unerring  and  furc,  the  detcr- 
jiilnations  of  fuch  a  perfon  concerning  beauty,  would,  beyond 
doubt,  be  a  perfeSt  ftandard  for  the  Tafte  of  all  others. 
Wherever  their  Tafte  differed  from  his,  it  could  be  imputed 
only  to  fome  imperfection  in  their  natural  powers.  But  as 
there  is  no  fuch  living  ftandard,  no  one  perfon  to  whom  all 
mankind  will  allow  fuch  fubmiifion  to  be  due,  what  is  there 
of  fufficient  authority  to  be  the  ftandard  of  the  various  and  op- 
pofite  Taftes  of  men  ?  Moft  certainly  there  is  nothing  but  the 
Tafte,  as  far  as  it  can  be  gathered,  of  human  nature.     That 

which 


12  TASTE.  Lect.II. 

M-hich  men  concur  the  moft  in  admiring,  muft  be  held  to  be 
beautiful.  His  Tafte  muft  be  efteemed  juft:  and  true,  which 
coincides  with  the  general  fentiments  of  mqn.  In  this  ftand- 
ard  we  muft  reft.  To  the  fenfe  of  mankind  the  ultimate  ap- 
peal muft  ever  lie,  in  all  works  of  Tafte.  If  any  one  fliould 
maintain  that  fugar  was  bitter  and  tobacco  was  fweet,  no  reafon- 
ings  could  avail  to  prove  it.  The  Tafte  of  fuch  a  perfon  would 
infallibly  be  held  to  be  difeafed,  merely  becaufe  it  differed  fo 
widely  from  the  Tafte  of  the  fpecies  to  which  he  belongs.  In 
like  manner,  wiih  regard  to  the  objects  of  fentiment  or  internal 
Tafte,  the  common  feelings  of  men  carry  the  fame  authority, 
and  have  a  title  to  regulate  the  Tafte  of  every  individual. 

But  have  we  then,  it  will  be  faid,  no  other  criterion  of  what 
is  beautiful,  than  the  approbation  of  the  majority  ?  Muft  we 
colle£V  the  voices  of  others,  before  we  form  any  judgment  for 
ourfelves,  of  what  deferves  applaufe  in  Eloquence  or  Poetry  ? 
By  no  means  :  there  are  principles  of  reafon  and  found  judg- 
ment which  can  be  applied  to  matters  of  Tafte,  as  well  as  to 
the  fubjeds  of  fcience  and  philofophy.  He  who  admires  or 
cenfures  any  work  of  genius,  is  always  ready,  if  his  Tafte  be  in 
any  degree  improved,  to  aflign  fome  reafons  of  his  decifion. 
He  appeals  to  principles,  and  points  out  the  ground's  on  which 
he  proceeds.  Tafte  is  a  fort  of  compound  power,  in  which  the 
light  of  the  underftanding  always  mingles,  more  or  lefs,  with 
the  feelings  of  fentiment. 

But,  though  reafon  can  carry  us  a  certain  length  in  judging 
concerning  works  of  Tafte,  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  the  ul- 
timate conclufions  to  which  our  reafonings  lead,  refer  at  laft  to 
fenfe  and  perception.  We  may  fpeculate  and  argue  cv>ncerning 
propriety  of  condu£t  in  a  tragedy,  or  an  Epic  poem.  Juft 
reafonings  on  the  fubje£t  will  correal  the  caprice  of  unenlight- 
ened Tafte,  and  eftablifn  principles  for  judging  of  what  de- 
ferves praife.  But,  at  the  fame  time,  thefe  reafonings  appeal 
always,  in  the  laft  refort,  to  feeling.  The  foundation  upon 
which  they  reft,  is  what  has  been  found  from  experience  to 
pleafe  mankind  moft  univerfally.  Upon  this  ground  we  prefer 
a  fimple  and  natural,  to  an  artificial  and  affedled  ftyle  ;  a  regu- 
lar and  well  conne£led  ftory,  to  loofe  and  fcattered  narratives  ; 
a  cataftrophe  which  is  tender  and  pathetic,  to  one  which  leaves 
us  unmoved.     It  is  from  confulting  our  own  imagination  and 

heart. 


Lect.II.  taste.  23 

heart,  and  from  attending  to  the  feelings  of  others,  that  any 
principles  are  formed  which  acquire  authority  in  matters  of 
Tafte.* 

When  we  refer  to  the  concurring  fentiments  of  men  as  the 
ultimate  teft  of  what  is  to  be  accounted  beautiful  in  the  arts, 
this  is  to  be  always  underftood  of  men  placed  in  fuch  fituations 
as  are  favourable  to  the  proper  exertions  of  Tafle.  Every  one 
mud  perceive,  that  among  rude  and  uncivilized  nations,  and 
during  the  ages  of  ignorance  and  darknefs,  any  ioofe  notions 
that  are  entertained  concerning  fuch  fubje£ls,  carry  no  author- 
ity. In  thofe  liates  of  fociety,  Talle  has  no  materials  on  which 
to  operate.  It  is  either  totally  fupprefled,  or  appears  in  its 
lowell  and  moft  imperfedt  form.  We  refer  to  the  fentiments 
of  mankind  in  polilhed  and  flourilhing  nations  ;  when  arts  are 
cultivated  and  manners  refined ;  when  works  of  genius  are 
fubjefted  to  free  dlfcuffion,  and  Tafte  is  improved  by  Science 
and  Philofophy. 

Even  among  nations,  at  fuch  a  period  of  fociety,  I  admit, 
that  accidental  caufes  may  occafionally  warp  the  proper  ope- 
rations of  Tafte  ;  fometimes  the  ftate  of  religion,  fometimes 
the  form  of  government,  may  for  a  while  pervert  it ;  a  licen- 
tious court  may  introduce  a  Tafte  for  falfe  ornaments,  and  dif- 
folute  writings.  The  ufage  of  one  admired  genius  may  pro-' 
cure  approbation  for  his  faults,  and  even  render  them  falhion- 
able.  Sometimes  envy  may  have  power  to  bear  down,  for  a 
little,  produftions  of  great  merit  j    while  popular  humour,  or 

party 

•  The  difTercnce  between  the  authors  who  found  the  flandard  of  Taflc 
tipon  the  common  feelings  of  human  nature  afcertaincd  by  general  approba- 
tion, and  thofe  who  found  it  upon  cflablilhcd  principles  which  can  be  afccr- 
tnincd  by  reafon,  is  more  an  apparent  tlian  a  real  difference.  Like  many  oth- 
er literary  controverfies,  it  turns  chiefly  on  modes  of  exprefTion.  For  they 
who  lay  the  greateft  ftrefs  on  fcruiment  and  feeling,  make  no  fcruple  of  ap- 
plying argument  and  reafon  to  matters  of  Tafte.  They  appeal,  like  other 
writers,  to  eftablillicd  principles,  in  judging  of  the  excellencies  of  Eloquence  or 
Poetry;  and  plainly  llicw,  that  the  sjetieral  approbation  to  which  they  ulti- 
mately recur,  is  an  approbation  rcfulting  from  difcufllon  as  well  as  from  f«n- 
tinitnt.  They,  on  the  other  hand,  who,  in  order  to  vindicate  Tafle  from  any 
fufpicion  of  being  arbitrary  ,  maintain  that  it  is  afcertainable  by  the  flandard 
of  reafon,  admit,  nevcrthelefs,  that  wh:it  pleafes  univerfally,  mufl  on  that  ac- 
count be  held  to  he  truly  beautiful  ;  and  that  no  ruleh  or  conclufions  concern- 
ino  ohjc<!ls  of  Tafle,  can  have  any  jull  authority,  if  they  be  found  to  contradict 
the  general  fentiments  of  men.  Thefe  two  fyflcms,  therefore,  ditTer  in  reality 
very  little  from  one  another.  Sentiment  and  realbn  enter  into  both  ;  and  by 
allowinjj  to  each  of  thcfc  powers  its  due  plac?,  both  fyflems  may  be  rendered 
confiftcnt.  Accordingly,  it  is  in  this  light  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  place 
the  fubjc'.l. 


24 


T      A      S      T      E.  Lect.II. 


party  fplrit,  miy,  at  other  times,  ex-alt  to  a  high,  though  fliort* 
lived  reputation,  what  little  tleferved  it.  But  though  fuch  caf- 
ual  circum fiances  give  the  appearance  of  caprice  to  the  judg- 
ments of  Tafte,  that  appearance  is  eafily  correOied.  In  the 
courfe  of  time,  the  genuine  Tafte  of  human  nature  never  fails 
to  difclofe  itfelf,  and  to  <]jain  the  afcendant  over  any  fantaftic 
and  corrupted  modes  of  Tafte  which  may  chance  to  have  been 
introduced.  Thcfe  may  have  currency  for  a  while,  and  mif- 
lead  fupcrficial  judges ;  but  being  fubjecfled  to  examination,  by 
degrees  they  pafs  away ;  while  that  alone  remains  which  is 
founded  on  found  reafon,  and  the  native  feelings  of  men. 

I  by  no  means  pretend,  that  there  is  any  ftandard  of  Tafte, 
to  which,  in  every  particular  inftance,  we  can  refort  for  clear 
and  immediate  determination.  Where,  indeed,  is  fuch  a  ftand- 
ard to  be  found  for  deciding  any  of  thofc  great  controveraes 
in  reafon  and  philofophy,  which  perpetually  divide  mankind  ? 
In  the  prefent  cafe,  there  was  plainly  no  occafion  for  any  fuch 
ftriiS:  and  abfolute  provifion  to  be  made.  In  order  to  judge  of 
what  is  morally  good  or  evil,  of  wliat  man  ought,  or  ought 
not  in  duty  to  do,  it  was  fit  that  the  means  of  clear  and  pre- 
cife  determination  fhould  be  afforded  us.  But  to  afcertain  in 
every  cafe  with  the  utmoft  exa£lnefs  what  is  beautiful  or  ele- 
gant, was  not  at  all  neceflary  to  the  happinefs  of  man.  And 
therefore  fome  diverfity  in  feeling  was  here  allowed  to  take 
place  -,  and  room  was  left  for  difcufTion  and  debate,  concern- 
ing the  degree  of  approbation  to  which  any  work  of  genius  is 
entitled. 

The  conclufion,  which  it  is  fufUcientfor  us  to  reft  upon,  is,  that 
Tafte  is  far  from  being  an  arbitrary  principle,  which  is  fubjecSh 
to  the  fancy  of  every  individual,  and  which  admits  of  no  cri- 
terion for  determining  whether  it  be  falfe  or  true.  Its  foun- 
dation is  the  fame  in  all  human  minds.  It  is  built  upon  fen- 
timents  and  perceptions  which  belong  to  our  nature  ;  and 
which,  in  general,  operate  with  the  fame  uniformity  as  our 
other  intellectual  principles.  When  thefe  fentiments  are  per- 
verted by  ignorance  and  prejudice,  they  are  capable  of  being 
re£tilied  by  reafon.  Their  found  and  natural  ftate  is  ultimate- 
ly determined,  by  comparing  them  with  the  general  Tafte  of 
mankind.  Let  men  declaim  as  much  as  they  pleafe,  concern- 
ing the  caprice  and  tlie  uncertainty  of  Tafte,  it  is  found,  by 

experience. 


Lect.II.  taste.  25 

experience,  that  there  are  beauties,  which,  if  they  be  difplayed 
in  a  proper  light,  have  power  to  command  lading  and  general 
admiration.  In  every  compofition,  what  interefts  the  imag- 
ination, and  touches  the  heart,  pleafes  all  ages  and  all  nations. 
There  is  a  certain  tiring,  which,  being  properly  ftruck,  the 
human  heart  is  fo  made  as  to  anfwer  it. 

Hence  the  univerfal  teftimony  which  the  mofl  improved  na- 
tions of  the  earth  have  confpired,  throughout  a  long  tradl  o£ 
ages,  to  give  to  fome  few  works  of  genius  ;  fuch  as  the  Iliad  of 
Homer,  and  the  ^neid  of  Virgil.  Hence  the  authority  which 
fuch  works  have  acquired,  as  ftandards  in  fomc  degree  of  po- 
etical compofition ;  fmce  from  them  we  are  enabled  to  colIe6t 
Avhat  the  fenfe  of  mankind  is,  concerninc;  thofe  beauties  winch 
give  them  the  higheft  pleafure,  and  which  therefore  poetry 
ought  to  exhibit.  Authority  or  prejudice  may,  in  one  age  or 
country,  give  a  temporary  reputation  to  an  indifferent  poet  or 
a  bad  artiil  ;  but  when  foreigners,  or  when  pofterity  examine 
his  works,  his  faults  are  difcerned,  and  the  genuine  Tafte  of 
human  nature  appears.  "  Opipionum  commenta  delet  dies  ; 
^^  naturne  judicia  confirmat."  Time  overthrows  the  illufions 
of  opinion,  but  eliabliflies  the  decifions  of  nature. 


E  LECTURE 


HiaM«aaaa*aa 


LECTURE         III. 


CRITICISM.      GENIUS.     PLEASURES  OF  TASTE. 
SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 

X  AS TE,  Criticifm,  and  Genius,  arr  wor^s  currently 
employed,  without  diilin6l:  ideas  annexed  to  them.  In  bcgin- 
ining  a  courfe  of  Leclures  where  fuch  words  mufl  often  occur, 
it  is  necelTary  to  afcertain  their  meaning  with  fome  precifion. 
Having  in  the  laA  Letlure  treated  of  Tafte,  I  proceed  to  ex- 
plain the  nature  and  foundation  of  Criticifm.  <  True  Criticifm 
is  the  application  of  Tafte  and  of  good  fenfe  to  the  feveraJ  fmc 
arts.  The  object  which  it  propofcs  is,  to  diftinguifh  what  is 
beautiful  and  what  is  faulty  in  every  performance;  from  par- 
ticular inftanqes  to  afcend  to  general  principles  ;  and  fo  to  form 
rules  or  conclufions  concerning  the  feveral  kinds  of  beauty  in 
works  of  genius.    / 

The  rules  of  Criticifm  are  not  formed  by  any  induclion, 
a  prioriy  as  it  is  called  j  that  isj  they  are  not  formed  by  a  train 
of  abftraft  reafoning,  independent  of  fa£l:s  and  obfervations. 
Criticifm  is  an  art  fotmded  wholly  on  experience  ;  on  the  ob- 
fervation  of  fuch  beauties  as  have  come  nearefl  to  the  ftandard 
which  I  before  cftabliflicd  :  that  is,  of  incli  beauties  as  have  been 
fotmd  to  pleafe  mankind  more  gcii.eraliy.  For  example  ;  Arif- 
totle's  rules  concerning  the  unity  of  aclion  in  dramatic  and  epic 
compofition,  v/crc  not  rules  firll  difcovered  by  logical  reafon- 
ing, and  then  applied  to  poetry  j  but  they  were  drawn  from  the 
pra«3:iceof  Homer  and  Sophocles  :  they  were  founded  upon  ob- 
ferving  the  fupcrinr  pleafure  which  we  receive  from  the  relation 
of  an  a£lion  which  is  one  and  entire,  beyond  what  we  receive 
from  the  relation  of  fcattered  and  unconnetled  fa£ils.  Such 
obfervations  taking  tlielr  rife  at  firfb  from  feeling  and  experience, 
were  found  on  examination  to  be  fo  con-fonant  to  reafon,  and 


LECT.Iir.  CRITICISM.  27 

to  the  principles  of  human  nature,  as  to  pafs  into  eftablifhed 
rules,  and  to  be  conveniently  applied  forjudging  of  the  excellen- 
cy of  any  performance.  This  is  the  nioft  natural  account  of 
the  origin  of  Criticifm. 

A  mailerly  genius,  it  is  true,  will  of  him felf,  untaught,  com- 
pofe  in  fuch  a  manner  as  fhall  be  agreeable  to  the  moft  mater 
rial  rules  of  Criticifm  ;  for  as  thefe  rules  are  founded  in  nature, 
nature  will  often  fuggeft  them  in  pra£licc.  Homer,  it  is  more 
than  probable,  was  acquainted  with  no  fyflems  of  the  art  of 
poetry.  Guided  by  genius  alone,  lie  compofcd  in  verle  a  reg- 
ular llory,  which  all  pollerity  has  admired.  But  this  is' no  ar- 
gument againft  the  ufefulnefs  of  Criticifm  as  an  art.  For  as  no 
human  genius  is  perfect,  there  is  no  writer  but  may  receive 
alhflance  from  critical  obfcrvations  upon  the  beauties  and  faults 
of  thofe  who  have  gone  before  him.  No  obferv^tions  or  rules 
can  indeed  fupply  the  defc£l:  of  genius,  or  infpire  it  where  ir 
is  wanting.  But  they  may  often  dire«f^  it  into  its  proper  chan- 
nel ;  they  may  correft  its  extravagancies,  and  point  out  to  k 
the  mod  juft  and  proper  imitation  of  nature.  Critical  rules  arc 
defigned  chiefly  to  fliew  the  faults  that  ought  to  be  avoided. 
To  nature  we  mult  be  indebted  for  the  produtlipn  of  eminent 
beauties. 

■  From  what  has  been  feid,  we  are  enabled  to  form  a  j-udgment 
concerning  thofe  complaints  which  it  has  long  been  fafliionablp 
for  petty  authors  to  make  againft  Critics  and  Criticifm.  Critics 
have  been  reprefentcd  as  the  great  abrldgcrs  of  tlic  native  liberty 
of  genius  ;  as  the  impofers  of  unjaatural  fliackles  and  bonds  upon 
writers,  from  whofe  cruel  perfecution  they  mull;  fly  to  the  pub- 
lic, and  implore  its  prote6tion.  Such  fupplicatory  prefaces  are 
not  calculated  to  give  very  favourable  ideas  of  the  genius  of  the 
audior.  For  every  good  writer  will  be  pleafed  to  have  his  work 
examined  by  the  principles  of  found  unilei  Handing  and  true 
Tafte.  The  declamations  againft  Criticifm  commonly  proceed 
upon  this  fuppofition,  that  Critics  are  fuch  as  judge  by  rule,  not 
by  feeling  ;  which  is  fo  far  from  being  true,  that  they  who  judge 
after  this  manner  are  pedanli,  not  Critics.  For  all  the  rules^oi 
genuine  Criticifm  I  have  flicwn  to  be  ultimately  founded  on  fccl- 
uig  ;  and  Tafte  and  I'celing  are  nccefl'ary  to  guide  us  in  the 
application,  of,  thefe  rul<^'s  to  every  particular  inilancc.    As  thcijc 


28  C  R  I  T  I  C  I  S  JNI.  Lect.  III. 

is  nothing  in  which  all  forts  of  perfons  more  readily  affc6l  to  be 
judges  than  in  works  of  Talle,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  num- 
ber of  incompetent  Critics  will  always  be  great.  But  this  af- 
fords no  more  foundation  for  a  general  inve£live  againft  Criti- 
cifm,  than  the  number  of  bad  philofophers  or  reafoners  affords 
againft  reafon  and  philofophy. 

An  objedlion  more  plaufible  may  be  formed  againft  Criticifm> 
from  the  applaufe  that  fome  performances  have  received  from 
the  public,  which,  when  accurately  confidered,  are  found  to  con- 
tradift  the  rules  eftablilhed  by  Criticifm..  Now,  according  to 
the  principles  laid  down  in  the  lall  Le6\ure,  the  public  is  the 
fupreme  judge  to  whom  the  laft  appeal  muft  be  made  in  every 
work  of  Tafte  ;  as  the  ftandard  of  Tafte  is  founded  on  the  feu- 
timents  that  are  natural  and  common  to  all  men.  But  with  re- 
fpeft  to  tliis,  we  are  to  obferve,  that  the  fenfe  of  the  public  is 
often  too  haftily  judged  of.  The  genuine  public  Tafte  does 
not  always  appear  in  the  firft  applaufe  given  upon  the  publica-. 
tion  of  any  new  work.  There  are  both  a  great  vulgar  and,  ^ 
fmall,  apt  to  be  catched  and  dazzled  by  very  fuperficial  beauties, 
the  admiration  of  which  in  a  little  time  pafles  away  :  and  fome- 
times  a  writer  may  acquire  great  temporary  reputation  merely, 
by  his  compliance  with  the  paflions  or  prejudices,  viath  the  party- 
fpirit  or  fuperftitious  notions  that  may  chance  to  rule  for  a. 
time  almoft  a  whole  nation.  In  fu.ch  cafes,  though  the  public 
may  feem  to  praife,  true  Criiicifm  may  with  reafon  condemn ; 
and  it  v/ill  in  progrefs  of  time  gain  the  afcendant :  for  the 
judgment  of  true  Criticifm,  and  the  voice  of  the  public  when 
once  become  unprejudiced  and  difpaflionate,  will  ever  coincide 
at  laft. 

Inftances,  I  admit,  there  are,  of  fome  works  that  contain, 
grofs  tranfgreirions  of  the  laws  of  Criticifm,  acquiring,  never- 
thelefs,  a  general,  and  even  a  lafting  admiration.  Such  are 
the  Plays  of  Shakefpeare,  which,  ccnfidcred  as  drarruitic  poems, 
arc  irregular  in  the  Iiighcft  degree.  But  then  v/e  are  to  re- 
mark, that  they  have  gained  the  public  admiration,  not  by  their 
being  irregular,  not  by  their  tranfgreflions  of  the  rules  of  arij 
but  in  fpite  of  fuch  tranfgrefTions,  They  poiTefs  other  beautifs 
which  are  conformable  to  juft  rules;  and  the  force  cf  thefe 
beauties  has  been  fo  great  as  to  overpower  all  ccnfure,  and  to 

-ive      • 


Lect.III.         '       G    E    N    I    U    S.  rz^ 

give  the  public  a  degree  of  f:itisfa£lion  fuperior  to  the  uifgull 
arifing  from  their  blemiflies.  Shakefpeare  plcafes,  not  by 
his  bringing  the  tranfa6lions  of  many  years  into  one  play  ;  not 
by  his  grotcfque  mixtures  of  tragedy  and  comedy  in  one  piece, 
nor  by  the  llrained  thoughts,  and  affedled  witticifnis,  which, 
he  fometimes  employs.  Thefe  we  confider  as  blemiflies,  and 
impute  them  to  the  grolTnefs  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  But 
he  pleafes  by  his  animated  and  mafterly  reprefentations  of 
characters,  by  the  livelincfs  of  his  defcriptions,  the  force  of  hi$ 
fentiments,  and  his  poflefling,  beyond  all  visiters,  the  natural 
language  of  paflion  :  Beauties  which  true  Criticifm  no  ief? 
teaches  us  to  place  in  the  higheft  rank,  than  nature  teaches  u^ 
to  feel.  Tills  much  it  may  fuHice  to  have  faid  concerning  the 
origin,  ofHce,  and  importance  of  Criticifm. 

I  proceed  next  to  explain  the  meaning  of  anotlier  term, 
which  there  will  be  frequent  occafion  to  employ  in  thefe  Lec- 
tures j  that  is,  Getiius. 

I  Tafte  and  Genius  are  two  words  frequently  joined  together  ; 
and  therefore,  by  inaccurate  thinkers,  confounded.  They  fig- 
jpify,  however,  two  quite  different  things.  The  difference  be- 
tween them  can  bf  clearly  pointed  out ;  and  it  is  of  importance 
to  remember  it.  Tafte  confills  in  the  power  of  judging.  Gc-  f 
iiius,  in  the  power  of  executing.  One  may  have  a  confiderable 
degree  of  Talle  in  p6etry,  eloquence,  or  any  of  the  fine  arts, 
who  has  little  or  hardly  any  Genius  for  eompofition  or  execu- 
tion in  any  of  thefe  arts  :  But  Genius  cannot  be  found  without 
including  Tafte  alfo.  Genius,  therefore,  defcrves  to  be  confid- 
cred  as  a  higher  power  of  the  mind  than  Tafte.  Genius  al- 
ways imports  lomething  inventive  or  creative  ;  which  does  not 
reft  in  mere  fenfibility  to  beauty  where  it  ic;  perceived,  but 
which  can,  moreover,  produce  new  beauties,  and  exhibit  them 
in  fuch  a  manner  as  ftrongly  to  imprefs  the  minds  of  others. 
Refined  Tafte  forms  a  good  critic ;  but  Gqnius  is  farther  xiecel- 
fary  to  form  the  poet,  or  the  orator.    ' 

;  It  is  proper  alfo  to  obfervc,  that  Genius  is  a  word,  which, 
in  common  acceptation,  extends  much  farther  than  to  the  ob- 
jects of  Tafte.  it  is  ufed  to  fignify  that  talent  or  aptitude 
which  we  receive  from  nature,  for  excelling  in  any  ciic  thing 
whutevcy.     Thus  we  fpe;;k  of  a  Genius  for  mathematics,  as 

well 


30  GENIUS.  LECT.nr. 

well  as  a  Genius  for  poetry  ;  of  a  Genius  for  war,  for  politics, 
or  for  any  mechanical  emplo-yment. 

This  talent  or  aptitude  for  excelling  in  fome  one  particular, 
is,  1  have  faid,  what  we  receive  from  nature,  hy  art  and  lludy, 
no  doubt,  it  may  be  greatly  improved  ;  but  by  them  alone  it 
cannot  be  acquired.  As  Genius  is  a  higher  faculty  than  Tafte, 
it  is  ever,  according  to  the  ufual  frugality  of  nature,  more  lim- 
ited in  the  fphere  of  its  operations.  It  is  not  uncommon  to 
meet  with  perfons  who  have  an  excellent  Tafte  in  feveral  of 
the  polite  arts,  fuch  as  mufic,  poetry,  painting,  and  eloquence, 
altogether  :  but,  to  find  one  who  is  an  excellent  performer  in 
aM  thefe  arts,  is  much  more  rare  ;  or  rather,  indeed,  fuch  an 
one  is  not  to  be  looked  far.  A  fort  of  Univerfal  Genius,  or 
one  who  is  equally  and  indifferently  turned  towards  feveral 
different  profeffions  and  arts,  is  not  likely  to  excel  in  any. 
Although  there  may  be  fome  few  exceptions,  yet  in  general  it 
holds,  that  when  the  bent  of  the  mind  is  wholly  directed  tc»- 
wards  fome  one  objedl,  exclufive  in  a  manner  of  others,  there 
is  the  faireft  profpe£l  of  eminence  in  that,  whatever  it  be.  The 
rays  muft  converge  to  a  point,  in  order  to  glow  intenfely^. 
This  remark  I  here  choofe  to  make,  on  account  of  its  great  im- 
portance to  young  people  ;  in  leading  them  to  examine  with 
care,  and  to  purfuc  with  ardour,  the  current  and  pointing  of 
nature  towards  thofe  exertions  of  Geniiis  in  which  they  are 
moft  likely  to  excel-.  • 

A  Genius  for  any  of  the  fine  arts,  as  I  before  obferved,  al- 
ways fuppofcs  Tafte  ;  and  it  is  clear,  that  the  improvement  of 
Tafle  will  fcrve  both  to  forward  and  to  corre*^  the  operatiorvs 
of  Genius.  In  proportion  as  the  Talle  of  a -poet,  or  orator, 
becomes  more  refined  with  refpe£l:  to  the  beauties  of  compofi- 
tion,  it  will  certainly  ailift  him  to  produce  the  more  finilheil 
beauties  in  his  work.  Genius,  however,  in  a  poet,  or  orator, 
may  fometimes  exift  in  a  higher  degree  than  Tafle  ;  that  is. 
Genius  may  be  bold  and  llrong,  when  Tafte  is  neither  very 
delicate,  nor  very  corre<fl:.  This  is  often  the  cafe  in  the  infan- 
cy of  arts  ;  a  period,  when  Genius  frequently  exerts  itfelf  with 
great  vigour,  and  executes  with  much  warmth  ;  while  Tafte, 
which  requires  experience,  and  improves  by  /loM'er  degrees, 
hath  not  yet  attained  its  full  growth.  Homer  and  Shakefpcare 
arc  proofs  of  what  I  now  allcrt ;  in  whofc  admirable  writings 

are 


Lect.III.  pleasures  OF  TASTE.  31 

are  fotind  inftances  of  rudcncfs  and  indelicacy-,  which  the 
more  refined  Tafte  of  later  writers,  who  had  far  inferior  Ge- 
nius to  them,  would  have  taught  them  to  avoid.  As  all  human 
perfe^lion  is  limited,  this  may  very  probably  be  the  law  of  our 
nature,  that  it  is  not  given  to  one  man  to  execute  with  vigour 
and  fire,  and,  at  the  fame  time,  to  attend  to  all  the  leffer  and 
more  refined  gr^ces  that  belong  to  the  exa61:  perfe6lion  of  his 
work  :  while  on  the  other  hand,  a  thorough  Tafte  for  thofc 
inferior  graces,  is,  for  the  moft  part,  accompanied  with  a 
diminution  of  fublimity  and  force. 

Having  thus  explained  the  nature  of  Tafte,  the  nature  and 
importance  of  Criticifm,  and  the  diftin(Stion  between  Tafte 
and  Genius  J  lam  now  to  enter  on  confidering  the  fources  of 
tlie  Pleafures  of  Tafte.  Here  opens  a  very  extenfive  field  ; 
no  lefs  than  all  the  pleafures  of  the  imagination,  as  they  are 
commonly  called,  whether  afforded  us  by  natural  objects,"  oar 
by  the  imitations  and  defcriptions  of  them.  But  it  is  not 
neceflary  to  the  purpofe  of  my  Le£tures,  that  all  thefe  fiiould 
lie  examined  fully  •,  the  pleafure  which  we  receive  from  dif- 
courfe,  or  writing,  being  the  main  objeft  of  them.  All  that  I 
purpofe  is,  to  give  fome  openings  Into  the  Pleafures  of  Tafte 
in  general ;  and  to  infift,  more  particularly,  upon  Sublimity 
and  Beauty. 

We  are  far  from  having  yet  attained  to  any  fyftem  concern- 
ing this  fubjecl.  Mr.  Addlfon  was  the  firft  who  attempted  2 
regular  inquiry,  in  hi-s  Efl^iy  on  the  Pleafures  of  the  Imaglna- 
Ltlon,  publifti<;d  in  the  fixth  volume  of  the  Speftator.  He  has 
reduced  thefe  Pleafures  under  three  heads  ;  Beautv,  Grandeur, 
and  Novelty.  His  fpeculations  on  this  fubjeft,  if  not  exceed- 
ingly profound,  are,  however,  very  beautiful  and  entertaining; 
and  he  has  the  merit  of  having  opened  a  track,  which  was 
before  unbeaten.  The  advances  made  fince  his  time  in  this 
curious  part  of  Philofophical  Criticifm,  arc  not  very  confider- 
able  ;  though  fome  ingenious  writers  have  purfucd  the  fubjccl- 
Thls  is  owing,  doubtlefs,  to  that  thinnefs  and  fubtilty  which 
arc  found  to  be  properties  of  all  the  feelings  of  Tafte.  They 
are  engaging  objed^s ;  but  when  we  w^ould  lay  firm  hold  of 
ihcm,  and  fubjecl  them  to  a  regular  difcuffion,  they  are  always 
ready  to  elude  our  grafp.  It  is  difficult  to  make  a  full  enu- 
xncration  of  the  fevcral  objeds  tliat  give  Pleafure  to  Tafte  j  it 

Is 


3t  SUBLTMITY  I^  OBJECTS.         LtcT.IlL 

is  more  difficult  to  define  all  thofe  which  have  been  dlfcovered* 
xnd  to  reduce  them  under  proper  cbfles  ;  and,  when  we  would 
go  farther,  and  in'.-eftigale  the  eflicient  caufes  of  the  pleafurc 
vrhich  we  receive  from  fueh  obje£\s,  here,  above  all,  we  find 
ourfelves  at  a  lofs.  For  inflance  %  we  all  learn  by  experience, 
that  certain  figures  of  bodies  appear  to  us  more  beautiful  than 
others.  On  inquiring  farther,  we  find  that  the  regularity  of 
fome  figures,  and  the  graceful  variety  of  others,  are  the  foun- 
dation of  the  beauty  which  we  difcern  in  them  5  but  when 
we  attempt  to  go  a  ftep  beyond  this,  artd  inquire  what  is  the 
caufc  of  regularity  and  variety  producing  in  our  niinds  the  (cn- 
fation  of  Beauty,  any  reafon  we  can  afiign  is  extremely  imper- 
fe6l.  Thefe  firll  principles  of  internal  fenfation,  nature  feems 
to  have  covered  with  an  impenetrable  veiU 

It  is  fome  comfort,  however,  that  although  the  eiHcient 
taufe  be  obfcure,  the  final  caufe  of  thofe  fenfations  lies  in 
many  cafes  more  open :  and  in  entering  on  this  fubje£l,  we 
cannot  avoid  taking  notice  of  the  flrong  impreffion  which  the 
powers  of  Tafte  and  Imagination  are  calculated  to  give  us  of 
the  benignity  of  our  Creator,  By  endowing  us  with  fuch 
powers,  he  hath  widely  enlarged  the  fphere  of  the  pleafures  of 
human  life;  and  thofe, too, of  a  kind  the  mod  pure  and  innocent. 
The  necefliiry  purpofcs  of  life  might  have  been  abundantly  an- 
{wercdy  though  our  fenfes  of  feeing  and  hearing  had  only 
ferved  to  dillinguifh  external  objects,  without  conveying  to  u? 
any  of  thofe  refined  and  delicate  fenfations  of  Beauty  and 
Grandeur,  with  which  we  are  now  fo  much  delighted.  This 
additional  embelliflimcnt  and  glory,  which,  for  promoting  our 
entertainment,  the  Author  of  nature  hath  poured  forth  upon 
■his  works,  is  one  ftriking  teflimony,  among  many  others,  of 
benevolence  and  goodnefs.  This  thought,  which  Mr.  Addifon 
firft  darted,  Dr.  Akenfide,  in  his  Poem  on  the  Pleafures  of  the 
•Imagination,  has  happily  purfucd. 


Not  contpnt 


With  every  food  of  life  to  POiirl;T\  man. 
By  kind  illufions  of  the  wondering  lenfc, 
'J-hou  mak'ft  all  nature  Beauty  to  his  eye, 
Or  Mufic  to  his  ear. 

I  fliall  begin  with  confidering  the  Pleafurc  wliich  arifes  from 
Sublimity  or  Grandeur,  of  which  I  propofe  to  treat  at  fome 
length  i    both,  as  this  has  a  character  more  precife  and  dif. 

tindly 


Lect.III.         sublimity  IN  OBJECTvS.  3^ 

tlnftly  marked,  than  any  other,  of  the  Pleafures  of  the  Imagina- 
tion, and  as  it  coincides  more  dire£lly  with  our  main  fubjefl. 
For  the  greater  difl:in£tnefs  I  (hall,  firft,  treat  of  the  Grandeur 
or  Sublimity  of  external  obje(SVs  themfelves,  which  will  employ 
the  reft  of  this  Lefture ;  and,  afterwards,  of  the  defcrlption  of 
fuch  objects,  or,  of  what  is  called  the  Sublime  in  Writing, 
which  fliall  be  the  fubjecSl  of  a  following  Le6lure.  I  diftin- 
guilh  thefe  two  things  from  one  another,  the  Grandeur  of  the 
obje£ls  themfelves  when  they  are  prefented  to  the  eye,  and  the 
defcription  of  that  Grandeur  in  difcourfe  or  writing ;  though 
moft  Critics,  inaccurately  I  think,  blend  them  together  ;  and  I 
confider  Grandeur  and  Sublimity  as  terms  fynonimous,  or  near- 
ly fo.  If  there  be  any  diftin£lion  between  them,  it  arifes  from 
Sublimity's  expreffipg  Grandeur  in  its  higheft  degree.* 

it  is  not  eafy  to  defcribe,  in  words,  the  precife  impreflloa 
which  great  and  fublime  objects  make  upon  us,  when  we  behold 
them  ;  but  every  one  has  a  conception  of  it.  It  confifts  in  a 
kind  of  admiration  and  expanfion  of  the  mind  ;  it  raifes  the 
mind  much  above  its  ordinary  ftate,  and  fills  it  with  a  degree 
of  wonder  and  aftonifhment,  v/hich  it  cannot  well  exprefs. 
The  emotion  is  certainly  delightful ;  but  it  is  altogether  of  the 
ferious  kind  ;  a  degree  of  awfulnefs  and  folemnity,  even  ap- 
proaching to  feverity,  commonly  attends  it  when  at  its  height  ; 
very  diftinguifliable  from  the  more  gay  and.brifk  emotion  raif- 
cd  by  beautiful  obje6ts.    ' 

The  fimpleft  form  of  external  Grandeur  appears  in  the  vaft 
and  boundlefs  profpeQs  prefented  to  us  by  nature ;  fuch  as  wide 
extended  plains,  to  which  the  eye  can  fee  no  limits  ;  the  firm- 
ament of  heaven  ;  or  the  boundlefs  expanfe  of  the  ocean. 
All  vaftnefs  produces  the  imprefllon  of  Sublimity.  It  is  to  be 
remarked,  however,  that  fpace  extended  in  length,  makes  not  fo 
flrong  an  impreflion  as  height  or  depth.  Though  a  boundlefs 
plain  be  a  grand  object:,  yet  a  high  mountain,  to  which  we  look 
up,  or  an  awful  precipice  or  tower  whence  we  look  down  on 
the  objecls  which  lie  below,  is  ftill  more  fo.  The  cxceffive 
Grandeur  of  the  firmament  arifes  from  its  height,  joined  to  its 
boundlefs  extent  ;  and  that  of  the  ocean,  not  from  its  extent 
:^lone,  but  from  the  perpetual  motion  and  irrcfiftible  force  o£ 

F  that 

•  Sec  a  Philofophical  Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and 
Beautiful    Dr,  Gerard  oa  Talte,  Sciftion  U,     Elements  of  CriticUin,  Chap.  IV. 


34  •  SUI^LIMITY  IM  OBJECTS.         Lect.IIL 

that  mafs  of  waters.  Wherever  fpace  is  coiicenied,  it  is  clear, 
that  amplitude  or  greataefs  of  extent,  in  one  ditnenfion  or  other, 
is  neceflary  to  Grandeur.  Remove  all  bounds  from  any  objefll, 
and  you  prefcntly  render  it  fublime.  Hence  infinite  fpace,  end- 
lefs  numbers,  and  eternal  duration,  fill  the  mind  with  great 
idens.    5 

From  th.is  fome  have  imagined,  that  vaftnefs,  or  amplitude 
of  extent,  is  the  foundation  of  all  Sublimity.  But  I  cannot  be 
of  this  opinion,  becaufe  many  objects  appear  fublime  which  have 
no  relation  to  fpace  at  all.  Such  for  inllance,  is  great  loudnefg 
of  found.  The  burft  of  thunder  or  of  cannon,  the  roaring  of 
winds,  the  fhonling  of  multitudes,  the  found  of  vafl  cataraiSts 
of  water,  are  all  incontellably  grand  objects.  "  I  heard  the 
**  voice  of  a  great  multitude,  as  the  found  of  many  waters,  and 
**  of  mighty  thunderings,  (wylng  Alleiujah."  In  general  we 
may  obfeive,  that  great  power  and  force  exerted,  always  raife 
fubhme  ideas  :  and  perhaps  the  moft  copious  fource  of  thefe  is 
derived  from  this  quarter.  Hence  the  Grandeur  of  earthquakes 
and  burning  mountains  -,  of  great  conflagrations  ;  of  the  flormy 
ocean,  and  overflowing  waters ;  of  tempeils  of  wind  ;  of  thun- 
der and  lightning  ;  and  of  all  the  uncommon  violence  of  the 
elements.  Nothing  is  more  fublime  than  mighty  power  and 
ftrength.  f  A  flream  that  ri'ns  within  its  banks,  is  a  beautiful 
objecl,  but  when  it  ruflies  down  with  the  impetuofity  and  noife 
of  a  torrent,  it  prefcntly  becomes  a  fublime  one.  From  lions, 
and  other  animals  of  ftrength,  are  drawn  fublime  comparifons 
in  poets.  A  racc-borfe  is  looked  upon  with  pleafure  \  but  it 
is  the  war-horfe,  "  whofe  neck  is  clothed  with  thunder,"  that 
carries  Grandeur  in  its  idea.  The  engagement  of  two  great 
armies,  as  it  is  tlie  Iiigheft  exertion  of  human  might,  combines 
a  variety  of  fources  of  the  Sublime  ;  and  has  accordingly  been 
always  confidered  as  one  of  the  moil  flriking  and  magnificent 
fpe£lacles  that  can  be  cither  prefented  to  the  eye,  or  exhibited 
to  the  imagination  in  defcription.    . 

For  the  farther  illuflration  of  this  fubject,  it  is  proper  to 
remark  that  all  ideas  of  the  folcmn  and  awful  kiiid,  and  even 
bordering  on  the  terrible,  tend  greatly  to  aiTnl:  the  Sublime  ; 
fuch  as  darknefs,  folitude,  and  fileiice.  What  are  the  fcenes  of 
nature  that  elevate  the  mind  in  the  highefl  degree,  and  produce 
the  fublime  fenfation  ?  Not  the  gay  landfcape,  the  flowery  field, 

or 


lECT.  Ill:         SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.  -jj 

or  the  flourifhing  city ;  but  the  hoary  mountain,  and  the  folita- 
ry  lake  ;  the  aged  foreft,  aiid  the  torrent  falling  over  the  rock.- 
Hence  too,  night- fcenes  are  commonly  the  moll  fublimc.  The 
firmament  when  filled  with  ftars,  fcattered  iii  fuch  vaft  numbers, 
and  with  fuch  mngnificent  prof ufion,  flrikes  the  imagiuatioii 
with  a  more  awful  Grandeur,  than  when  we  view  it  enlightened 
by  all  the  fplendour  of  the  fun.  The  deep  found  of  a  great  bcll^ 
or  the  (Iriking  of  a  great  clock,  are  at  any  time  grand  j  buty 
when  heard  amid  the  fiknce  and  ftrllnefs  of  the  night,  they 
become  doubly  fo.  /  Darknefs  is  very  commonly  applied  fop 
a<lding  fublimity  to  all  our  ideas  of  the  Detty.  "He  maketh  dark- 
*■'  nefs  his  pavilion  ;  he  dwclleth in  the  thick  cloud."  So  Milton: 


How  oft,  amidft 


Thick  clouds  and  dark,  does  he;iv'n's  alKraling  Sire 

Choofe  to  icfidc,  his  glory  nnobfcur'd, 

And,  with  tlie  majefty  of  darknefs,  vouild 

Circles  his  throne- '  Book  IL  263, 

Obiervc,  with  how  much  art  Virgil  has  introduced  all  thofs 
ideas  of  filence,  vacuity,  and  darknefs,  when  he  is  going  to  in- 
troduce his  Hero  to  the  infernal  regions,  and  to  difclofe  the 
fccrets  of  the  great  deep. 

Dii,  quibus  imperium  efl  animarunis,  nmbvceque  filentes, 

Et  Cliaos,  ct  Phiegcthon,  locano<5te  iitentia  lat^, 

Sit  milii  fas  aiulita  loqui;  lit  numine  veltro 

Piindcre  res  aha  terra,  &  caligine  merlas. 

Iban  obfcuri,  fola  fob  node,  per  ambram, 

Perque  uomos  Ditis  vacuos,  et  ioania  regna  ; 

Qiiale  per  inceitam  lunam,  fub  luce  maligna 

Eil  iter  in  fylvis .* 

Thefe  palTages  I  quote  at  prcfent,  not  fo  much  as  infkances  o£ 
Sublime  Writing,  though  in  themfelves  they  truly  are  fo,  as  to. 
fhew,  by  the  effed  of  them,  that  the  objedls  which  they  pre- 
fent  to  us,  belong  to  the  clafs  of  fublin^e  ones, 

Obfcurity, 
•  Ye  fuhtcrrancan  goc's,  whnfe  awful  fw.iy 

The  gliding  gliofts  and  filcnt  iliacles  obey  ; 

O  Cliaos,  hear  !  and  PhlegelliDn  profonnd  ! 

AVhofe  folenin  empire  (tretchis  wide  around-; 

Give  me,  ye  great  tremcnddas  powers!  to  tell 

Of  fctnes  and  wonders  in  tlie  elcptlis  of  hell  ; 

Give  mc  your  iniglity  fecrcts  to  difplay, 

From  tlioie  black  realms  of  darknefs  to  the  day.  Pittc. 

Obfcnre  they  went ;  tIiron[,>li  dreary  (liades,  that  IcJ 

Along  the  wafte  dominions  of  the  dead  ; 

As  wander  travellers  in  woods  l!y_night. 

By  the  moon's  doubtful  and  malijj^np-pt  ligli;.  DayfiSffv 


36  SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.         Lect.  III. 

Obfcurlty,  we  are  farther  to  remark,  is  not  unfavourable  to 
the  Subhme.  Though  it  render  the  objecl  indiflin<^,  the  im» 
prefllon,  liowever,  may  be  great ;  for,  as  an  ingenious  Author 
has  well  obferved,  it  is  one  thing  to  make  an  idea  clear,  and 
another  to  make  it  affeiling  to  the  imagination  •,  and  the  imagi- 
nation may  be  ftrongly  aiTctled,  and,  in  fad,  often  is  fo,  by 
objefts  of  which  we  have  no  clear  conception.  Thus  we  fee, 
that  almoft  all  the  defcriptions  given  us  of  the  appearances  of 
fupernatural  beings,  carry  fome  Sublimity,  though  the  concep- 
tions which  they  afford  us  be  confufed  and  indift,in£l.  Their 
Sublimity  arifes  from  the  ideas,  which  they  always  convey,  of 
fuperior  power  and  might,  joined  with  an  awful  obfeurity.  We 
may  fee  this  fully  exemplified  in  the  following  noble  paflage 
of  the  book  of  Job.  "  In  thoughts  from  the  vifions  of  the  night, 
*'  when  deep  lleep  falleth  upon  m^n,  fear  came  upon  me,  and 
*'  trembling,  which  made  all  my  bones  to  fhake.  Then  a  fpirit 
*'  pafled  before  my  face  ;  the  hair  of  my  flefli  flood  up  •..  it  flood 
*'  ilill  J  but  I  could  not  difcern  the  form  thereof  •,  an  image 
**  was  before  mine  eyes  ;  there  was  filence  ;  and  I  heard  a 

*Woice Shall  mortal   man  be  more  jufl  than  God?"*  (Job 

iv.  15.)  No  ideas,  it  is  plain,  are  fo  fublime  as  thofe  taken  from 
the  Supreme  Being ;  the  mofl  unknown,  but  the  greatefl  of  ali  ob- 
je£ls ;  the  infinity  of  whofe  nature,  and  the  eternity  of  whofe  du- 
ration, joined  with  the  omnipotence  of  his  power,  though  they 
furpafs  our  conceptions,  yet  exalt  them  to  the  higheft.  In 
general,  all  objedls  that  are  greatly  raifed  above  us,  or  far  re- 
moved from  us,  either  in  fpace  or  in  time,  are  apt  to  flrike  ua 
as  great.  Our  viewing  them,  as  through  the  mifl  of  diflance 
or  antiquity,  is  favourable  to  the  imprefCons  of  their  Sub- 
limity. 

As  obfeurity,  fo  difordertoo,  is  very  compatible  with  Gran- 
deur j  nay,  frequently  heightens  it.     Few  things  that  are  fl;ri6t- 

*  The  pi<flure  which  Lucretius  has  drawn  of  the  dominion  of  ftiperftitioiv 
over  mankind,  rtprtfenting  it  as  a  portentous  fptcflre  Ihowing  its  head  from, 
the  clouds,  and  difniaying  the  whole  human  race  with  its  countenance,  to-, 
gcthcr  with  the  magnanimity  of  Epicurus  ia  raifing  JiimfcU  up  againllit,  carries 
ail  the  grandeur  of  a  fublime,  obfcure,  and  awful  image. 

Humana  ante  oculos  foede  cum  vita  jaccret 

In  terris,  opprelTa  gravi  fub  religione, 

Qux  caput  a  cseli  regionibus  oflcndebat, 

Horribili  fuper  afpc(5lu  mortalibus  inflans, 

J'rinium  Graius  homo  mortalts  tollcrc  cont.ri, 

Ifl  oculos  aufui.——  l.Ji.1. 


Lect.  III.         SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.  37 

ly  regular  and  methodical,  appear  Sublime.  We  fee  the  limits 
on  every  fide  ;  we  feel  ourfelves  confined  ;  there  is  no  room 
for  the  mind's  exerting  any  great  efibrt.  Exa£l  proportion  of 
parts,  though  it  enters  often  into  the  beautiful,  is  much  difre- 
garded  in  the  Sublime.  A  great  mafs  of  rocks,  thrown  togeth- 
er by  tlie  hand  of  nature  with  wildnefs  and  confufion,  ftrikc 
the  mind  with  more  Grandeur,  than  if  they  had  been  adjufted 
to  each  other  with  the  moft  accurate  fymmetry. 

In  the  feeble  attempts,  which  human  art  can  make  towards 
producing  grand  obje6ls,  (feeble,  I  mean,  in  comparlfon  with 
the  powers  of  nature)  greatnefs  of  dimenfions  always  confti* 
tutes  a  principal  part.  No  pile  of  building  can  convey  any  idea 
of  Sublimity,  unlefs  it  be  ample  and  lofty.  There  is,  too,  in 
architecture,  what  is  called  Greatnefs  of  manner  ;  which  fcems 
chiefly  to  arife,  from  prefcnting  the  obje£l  to  us  in  one  full 
point  of  view  ;  fo  that  it  fhall  make  its  impreflion  whole,  en- 
tire, and  undivided,  upon  the  mind.  A  Gothic  cathedral  raife$ 
ideas  of  Grandeur  in  our  minds,  by  its  fize,  its  height,  its  awful 
obfcurity,  its  ftrength,  its  antiquity,  and  its  durability. 

There  ftill  remains  to  be  mentioned  one  clafs  of  Sublime 
objedls,  which  may  be  called  the  moral,  or  fentimental  Sub- 
lime ;  arifing  from  certain  exertions  of  the  human  mind  ; 
from  certain  afFeClions,  and  anions,  of  our  fellow-creatures. 
Thefe  will  be  found  to  be  all,  or  chiefly,  of  that  clafs,  which 
comes  under  the  name  of  Magnanimity  or  Heroifm  ;  and  they 
produce  an  eWeO.  extremely  fimilar  to  vi-hat  is  produced  by  tlic 
view  of  grand  objects  in  nature  ;  filling  the  mind  with  admira- 
tion, and  elevating  it  above  itfelf.  A  noted  inftance  of  this, 
quoted  by  all  the  French  Critics,  is  the  celebrated  ^/'il  Mourut 
pf  Corneille,  in  the  Tragedy  of  Horace.  In  the  famous  com- 
bat betwixt  the  Horatli  and  the  Curiatii,  the  old  Iloratius  be- 
ing informed,  that  two  of  his  fons  are  flain,  and  that  the  third 
had  betaken  himfelf  to  flight,  at  firll  will  not  believe  the  report ; 
but  being  thoroughly  afl'ured  of  the  fa£l,  is  fired  with  all  the 
fcntiments  of  high  honour  and  indignation  at  this  fuppofed 
unwortliy  behaviour  of  his  furviving  fon.  He  is  reminded, 
that  his  fon  flood  alone  again  ft  three,  and  aflced  what  he  would 
have  had  him  to  have  done  .-'  "  To  have  died,"  he  anfwers. 
In  the  fame  manner  Porus,  taken  prifoner  by  Alexander,  after 
a  gallant  defence,  and  afkcd  in  what  manner  he  would  be  treat- 
ed I 


38  SUBLIMITY  IN  OB JECm         Lect.III. 

cd  ?  anfwering,  "  Like  a  king  ;"  and  Caefar  chiding  the  pilot 
wlio  was  afraid  to  fet  out  with  him  in  the  ilorm,  "  Quid  times  ? 
**  Caefarem  vehis  j",  are  good  inllances  of  this  fentimental  Sub- 
lime. Wherever,  in  fome  critical  and  high  fituation,  we  behold 
a  man  uncommonly  intrepid,  and  refting  upon  himfelf  v  fupe- 
rior  to  paffion  and  to  fear  j  animated  by  fome  great  principle  to 
the  contempt,  of  popular  opinion,  of  felfilh  intereft,  of  dangers* 
or  of  death  ;  there  we  are  flruck  with  a  fenfe  of  the  Sublime.^ 
High  virtue  is  the  moft  natural  and  fertile  fource  of  this 
mjoral  Sublimity.  However,  on  fome  occafions,  where  viitu« 
either  has  no  place,  or  is  but  imperfectly  difplayed,  yet  if  ex- 
traordinary vigour  and  force  of  mind  be  difcovered,  we  are  not 
M?fpiifi;ble  to  a  degree  of  Grandeur  in  the  chara^ler  5  and  frona 
the  fplendid  conqueror,  or  the  daring  confpirator,  whom'  we 
are  far  from  approving,  we. cannot  withhold  our  admiratiqn.f 

1  have 

*  The  Sublime,  in  natural  and  in  moral  ebjetSls,  is  brought  beC*)re  us  in  one 
▼lew,  and  compared  together,  in  the  lolljuwing  beautiful  patl'agc  ci"  Akculide's 
Pleatures  of  the  Imagination  : 

Look  then  abroad  through  nature,  toithe  range 
Of  planets,  funs,  and  adamantine  fpheres, 
Wheeling,  unfhaken,  thro'  tJie  void  immenfc ; 
And  fpeak,  O  man  !  docs  tliis  capacious  fcene. 
With  half  that  kindling  majefty,  dilate 
^rhy  flrong  conception,  as  vhcn  Brutus  role', 
llefulgent,  from  the  ftioke  of  Cxfar's  fate, 
Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots ;  and  his  arm 
f,'  Aloft  extending,  like  ecernal  Jove, 

When  guilt  brings  down  tiic  thunder,  caTl'd  aloud 

On  Tully's  name,  and  lliook  his  crimfon  fVeel, 

And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail ! 

For  lo  !  the  tyrant  proftrate  on  the  duft  ; 

And  Rome  again  is>  free.  Book  I, 

*  Siiius  Ttalicus  has  fludied  to  give  an  auguft  idea  of  Hannibal,  by  repr«- 
fenting  him  as  furroundcd  with  all  his  vidlories,  in  the  place  of  guards.  One 
who  had  formed  a  defign  of  afl'allinating  him  in  the  midft  of  a  fealt,  is  thus  ad- 
drtfl'cd  : 

Pallit  te,  menfas  inter  qiiod  credis  inermem; 
Tot  bellis  quaihta  viro,  tot  cadibua,  arniat 
Majcflas  astern?,  duccm.     Si  adraoveris  ora 
Cannas   &  Trebiam  ante  oculo.«,  Trafymcnaq^pe  bufla 
Et  Pauli  flare  ingentem  miraberis  umbram. 

A  thought  fomcwhat  of  the  fame  nature  occurs  in  a  French  author,  "II  fe 
"  cache ;  mais  fa  reputation  le  decouvre  :  II  marche  fans  fuite  &  fans  equipage  ; 
«•  mais  chacun,  dans  fon  efprit,  le  met  fur  un  char  de  triomphe.  "Dn  compte, 
«  en  le  yoiant,  Ics  ennemis  qu'il  a  vaineus,  non  pas  les  feivitcurs  qui  le  fuivent. 
"  Tout  feul  qu'il  eff,  on  fe  figure,  autour  de  lui,  fes  vcrtus,  &  fes  vitfloires 
"qui  Taccompagnent.  Moins  il  tft  fupcrbe,  plus  il  devient  venerable." — 
Oraifon  funcbre  de  M.  de  Turenne,  par  M.  Flechier. — Both  thefe  paflagcs  arc 
fplendid,  rather  than  fublime.  In  the  firfi,  there  is  a  want  of  juftntl's  in  the 
thought  i  m  the  fecond,  of  fimplicity  in  the  exprtflloa. 


Lect.iii.      sublimity  in  objects.  35 

i  have  now  enumerated  a  variety  of  inftances,  both  hi  hiani- 
mate  objeiSIs  aiul  hi  human  life,  wherein  the  Sublime  appears. 
In  all  thefe  inftances,  the  emotioix  raifed  in  us  is  of  the  fame 
kintl,  althoHgli  the  objefts  that  produce  the  emotion  be  of  wide- 
ly different  kinds.  A  queftion  next  arifes,  whether  we  are  able 
to  difcover  forae  one  fundamental  quaUty  in  which  all  thefe  dif- 
fcient  obje£l8  agree,  and  which^is  the  caufe  of  their  producing 
an  emotion  of  the  fame  nature  in  our  minds  ?  Various  hypoth- 
efes  have  been  formed  concerning  this  ;  but,  as  far  as  appears 
to  mc,  hitherto  unfatisfailory.  Some  hav^e  imagined  that 
amplitude,  or  great  extent,  joined  with  fimplicity,  is  cither  im- 
mediately, or  remotely,  the  fundamental  quality  of  whatever  is 
fublime ;  but  we  hai'c  feen  that  amplitude  is  confined  to  one 
fpecies  of  Sublime  objects,  and  cannot,  without  violent  ftrain- 
iiig,  be  applied  to  them  all.  The  Author  of  "  A  Philofophical 
*'  Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and 
*'  Beautiful."  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  feveral  ingenious 
and  original  thoughts  upon  this  fubject,  propofes  a  formal 
theory  upon  this  foundation.  That  terror  is  the  fource  of  the 
Sublime,  and  that  no  obje6l3  have  this  character,  but  fuch  as 
produce  imprefhons  of  pain  and  danger.  It  is  indeed  true, 
that  many  terrible  objecls  are  highly  Sublime  ;  and  that  Gran- 
deur does  not  refufe  an  alliance  with  the  idea  of  danger.  But 
though  this  is  very  properly  illuftrated  by  the  Author,  (many  of 
whofe  fentiments  on  that  head  I  have  adopted)  yet  he  fcems  to 
ftretch  his  theory  too  far,  when  he  reprefents  the  Sublime  as 
confilting  wholly  in  modes  of  danger,  or  of  pain.  '  For  the 
proper  fenfation  of  Sublimity  appears  to  be  very  dillinguifha- 
ble  from  the  fenfation  of  either  of  thefe  ;  and,  on  feveral  occa- 
fions,  to  be  entirely  feparated  from  them.  In  many  grand  ob* 
jc£ls,  there  is  no  coincidence  with  terror  at  all ;  as  in  the  mag- 
nificent profpe6t  of  wide  extended  plains,  and  of  the  flarry 
firmament ;  or  in  the  moral  difpofitions  and  fentiments,  which 
we  view  with  high  admiration  ;  and  in  many  painful  and  ter- 
rible objefts  alfo,  it  is  clear,  there  is  no  fort  of  Grandeur. 
The. amputation  of  a  Hmb,  or  the  bite  of  a  fnake,  are  exceed* 
ingly  terrible ;  but  are  deftitute  of  all  claim  whatever  to  Sub- 
limity. I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  mighty  force  or  power, 
whether  acctunpanicd  with  terror  or  not,  whether  employed 

ia 


40  SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.         Lect.  III. 

in  protefling,  or  In  alarming  us,  has  a  better  title,  than  any 
thing  that  has  yet  been  mentioned,  to  be  the  fundamental  qual- 
ity cf  the  Sublime  j  as,  after  the  review  which  we  have  taken, 
there  docs  not  occur  to  me  any  Sublime  Objetit,  into  the  idea 
of  which,  power,  ftrength,  and  force,  either  enter  not  direftly, 
or  are  not,  at  leafl,  intimately  aflbciated  with  the  idea  by  lead- 
ing our  thoughts  to  fome  aftonifhing  power,  as  concerned  in 
the  produftion  of  the  objeft.  However,  I  do  not  infill  upon 
this  as  fufficient  to  found  a  general  theory  :  It  is  enough,  now, 
to  have  given  this  view  of  the  nature  and  different  kinds  of 
Sublime  Obje£ls  ;  by  which  I  hope  to  have  laid  a  proper 
foundation  for  difcufllng,  with  greater  accuracy,  the  Sublime 
in  Writing  and  CompoHtion. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        IV. 


THE  SUBLIME  IN  WRITING, 


H, 


.AVING  treated  of  Grandeur  or  Sublimity  in  ex- 
ternal obje£ts,  the  way  feems  now  to  be  cleared,  for  treating, 
•with  more  advantage,  of  the  defcriptions  of  fuch  objedi^^s ;  or, 
of  what  is  called  the  Sublime  in  Writing.  Though  it  may  ap- 
pear early  to  enter  on  the  confideration  of  this  fubje(£t ;  yet,  as 
the  Sublime  is  a  fpccies  of  Writing  which  depends  lefs  than 
any  other  on  the  artificial  embellifliments  of  rhetoric,  it  may 
be"  examined  with  as  much  propriety  here,  as  in  any  fubfcquent 
part  of  the  Leisures. 

Many  critical  terms  ha^^e  unfortunately  been  employed,  in 
a  fenfe  too  loofe  and  vague ;  none  more  fo,  than  that  of  the 
Sublime.  Every  one  is  acquainted  with  the  charadler  of  Cae- 
far's  Commentaries,  and  of  the  ftyle  in  which  they  are  written  ; 
a  ftyle  remarkably  pure,  fimple,  and  elegant  j  but  the  moft  re- 
«iotc  from  the  Sublime,  of  any  of  the  clafTical  authors.  Yet 
this  author  has  a  German  critic,  Johannes  Gulielmus  Bergerus, 
who  wrote  no  longer  ago  than  the  year  1 7  20,  pitched  upon  as  the 
perfedl  model  of  the  Sublime,  and  has  compofed  a  quarto  vol- 
ume, entitled,  De  tintura/i  pulchrituditie  Craiioms ;  the  exprefs 
intention  of  which,  is  to  fhew,  that  Caefar's  Commentaries  con* 
tain  the  moft  complete  ^emplification  of  all  Longinus's  rules 
relating  to  Sublime  Writing.  This  I  mention  as  a  ftrong  proof 
of  the  confufed  ideas  which  have  pi-evailed,  concerning  this  fub- 
jeft.  The  true  fenfe  of  Sublime  Writing,  undoubtedly,  is  fuch 
a  dcfcriptlon  of  objects,  or  exhibition  of  fentiments,  which  are 
in  themfelvcs  of  a  Sublime  nature,  as  fliall  give  us  ftrong  im- 
preflions  of  them.  But  there  is  another  very  indefinite,  and 
therefore  very  improper,  fenfe,  which  has  been  too  often  put 
upon  it  i  when  it  is  applied  to  figuify  any  remarkable  and  dif- 
G  tinguifhlng 


42  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.         Lect.IV. 

tirtgulililng  excelle-icy  of  compofition  ;  whether  it  raifc  in  us 
the  ideas  of  grandeur,  or  ihofe  of  gentlenefs,  elegance,  or  any 
other  fort  of  beauty.  In  this  itn^t,  CSelar's  Commentaries  may, 
indeed,  be  termed  Sublime,  and  fo  may  many  Sonnets,  Pallo- 
rals,  and  Love  Elegies,  as  well  as  Homer's  Iliad.  But  this  evi- 
dently confounds  the  ufe-of  words,  and  marks  no  one  fpecies, 
or  character,  of  compofition  whatever. 

I  am  forry  to  be  obliged  to  obfcrve,  that  the  Sublime  is  too 
often  ufed  in  this  laft  and  improper  fenfe,  by  the  celebrated 
critic  Longiuus,  in  his  treatife  on  this  fubjetl.  He  fets  out, 
indeed,  with  defcribing  it  in  its  juffc  and  proper  meaning  ;  as 
fomething  that  elevates  the  mind  above  itfelf,  and  fills  it  with 
high  conceptions,  and  a  noble  pride.  But  from  this  view  of 
it  he  frequently  departs ;  and  fubftitutes  in  the  place  of  it, 
whatever,  in  any  (train  of  compofition,  pleafes  highly.  Thus, 
many  of  the  paflages  which  he  produces  as  inllances  of  the  Sub- 
lime, are  merely  elegant,  without  having  the  mod  dillant  relation 
to  proper  Sublimity;  witnefs  Sappho's  famous  Ode,  on  which  he 
defcants  4t  confiderable  length.  He  points  out  five  fources  of  the 
Sublime.  The  firft  is,  Boidnefs  or  Grandeur  of  the  Thoughts  ; 
the  fecond  is,  tlie  Pathetic  5  the  third,  the  proper  applica- 
tion of  Figures  j  the  fourth,  the  ufe  of  Tropes  and  beautiful 
exprelfions  ;  the  fifth,  Mufical  Stru6lure  and  Arrangement  of 
"Words.  This  is  the  plan  of  one  who  vvas  writing  a  treatifeof 
rhetoric,  or  of  the  beauties  of  Writing  in  general ;  not  of  the 
Sublime  in  particular.  For  of  thefe  five  heads,  only  the  two 
firft  have  any  peculiar  relation  to  the  Sublime  j  Boidnefs  and 
Grandeur  in  the  Thoughts,  and,  in  fomc  inflanccs,  the  Pnthet- 
ic,  or  ftrong  exertions  of  Paflion  :  The  other  three.  Tropes, 
Figure«,  and  Mufical  Arrangement,  have  no  more  relation  to 
the  Sublime,  than  to  other  kinds  of  good  Writing  j  perhaps 
lefs  to  the  Sublime  than  to  any  other  fpccies  whatever  ,-  becaufe 
it  requires  le^s  the  affiltance  of  ornament.  From  this  it  appears, 
that  clear  and  precife  ideas  on  this  head  are  not  to  be  expeQcd 
from  that  wrirer.  I  would  not,  however,  be  undcrdood,  as  if 
I  meant,  by  this  cenfure,  to  reprefent  his  treatife  as  of  fmall 
value.  I  know  no  critic,  ancient  or  modern,  that  difcovers  a 
more  lively  relifli  of  the  beauties  of  fine  Wiiting.  t!ian  Lon- 
ginus  ',  and  he  has  alfo  the  merit  of  being  himi'elf  au  excellent, 

and. 


Lect.  IV.         SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  43 

and,  in  feveral  paffages,  a  truly  Sublime,  writer.  But,  as  his 
work  has  been  generally  confidered  as  a  flandard  on  this  fub- 
je£l,  it  was  incumbent  on  me  to  give  my  opinion  concerning 
the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  it.  It  deferves  to  be  confulted, 
not  fo  much  for  dillin£l  inftruQIon  concerning  the  Sublime, 
as  for  excellent  general  ideas  concerning  beauty  in  Writing.   ' 

I  return  now  to  the  proper  and  natural  idea  of  the  Sublime 
in  compofirion.  The  foundation  of  it  mufl  always  be  laid  in 
the  nature  of  the  obje£l  defcribed.  Unlcfs  it  be  fuch  an  ob- 
jedl  as,  if  prefented  to  our  eyes,  if  exhibited  to  us  in  reality, 
would  raife  ideas  of  that  elevating,  that  awful,  and  magnificent 
kind,  which  we  call  Sublime ;  the  defcilptlon,  however  finely 
drawn,  is  not  entitled  to  come  under  this  clafs.  This  excludes 
all  objects  that  are  merely  beautiful,  gay,  or  elegant.  In 
the  next  place,  the  obje£l  muil  not  only,  in  itfelf,  be  Sublime, 
but  it  mult  be  fet  before  us  in  fuch  a  light  as  is  mod  proper 
to  give  us  a  clear  and  full  imprcflion  of  it ;  it  muft  be  defcrib- 
ed with  ftrength,  with  concifenefs,  and  fimplicity.  I  This  de^* 
pends,  principally,  upon  the  lively  imprefTion  which  the  poet, 
or  orator  has  of  the  objc61:  which  he  exhibits;  and  upon  his 
being  deeply  aifeiled,  and  warmed,  by  the  Sublime  idea  which 
he  would  convey.  If  his  own  feeling  be  languid,  he  can  nev- 
er infpire  us  with  any  ftrong  emotion.  Inflances,  which  are 
extremely  neceflary  on  this  fubjeft,  will  clearly  fliow  the  im- 
portance of  all  thofe  requifites  which  I  have  juft  now  men- 
tioned. 

It  is,  generally  fpeaking,  among  the  moft  ancient  authors, 
that  we  are  to  look  for  the  molt  flriking  inftances  of  "the  Sub- 
hme.  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  the  early  ages  of  the  world, 
and  the  rude  unimproved  ftate  of  fociety,  are  peculiarly  favour- 
able to  the  ftrong  emotions  of  Sublimity.  The  genius  of  men 
Is  then  much  turned  to  admiration  and  aftonifhment.  Meet- 
ing with  many  obje£ls,  to  them  new  and  ftrange,  their  imag- 
ination is  kept  glowing,  and  their  paflions  are  often  raifed  to 
the  utmoft.  They  think,  and  exprefs  themfelves  boldly,  and 
without  reilraint.  In  the  progrefs  of  fociety,  the  genius  and 
manners  of  men  undergo  a  change  more  favourable  to  accura- 
cy, than  to  ftrength  or  Sublimity,     i 

Of, 


44  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.         Lect.IV. 

Of  all  writings,  ancient  or  modern,  the  Sacred  Scriptures  af- 
ford us  the  highcll  inftances  of  the  Sublime.  The  defcnp- 
tions  of  the  Deity,  in  them,  are  wonderfully  noble  ;  both  from 
the  grandeur  of  the  object,  and  the  manner  of  reprefenting  it. 
What  an  aflcmblage,  for  inftance,  of  awful  and  fublime  ideas 
is  prefented  to  us,  in  that  p^iTiige  of  the  XVIIIthPfalm,  where 
an  appearance  of  the  Almighty  is  defcribed  ?  *'  In  my  diftrefs 
*'  I  called  upon  the  Lord ;  he  heard  my  voice  out  of  his  tem- 
*'  pie,  and  my  cry  came  before  him.  Then,  the  earth  fhook 
*'  and  trembled  ;  the  foundations  alfo  of  the  hills  were  moved.; 
*'  bec-iiife  he  was  wroth.  He  bowed  the  heavens,  and  came 
*'  down,  and  darknefs  was  under  his  feet ;  and  he  did  ride 
**  upon  a  Cherub,  and  did  fly  :  yea,  he  did  fly  upon  the  wings 
*'  of  the  wind.  He  made  darknefs  his  fecret  place  ;  his  pavilion 
*'  round  about  him  were  dark  waters,  and  thick  clouds  of  the 
*'  fky."  Here,  agreeably  to  the  principles  eftabliflied  in  the 
laft  Le£lure,  we  fee  with  what  propriety  and  fuccefs  the  cir- 
cumftances  of  darknefs  and  terror  are  applied  for  heightening 
the  Sublime.  So,  alfo,  the  prophet  Habakkuk,  in  a  fimilar  paf- 
fage  :  "  He  flood,  and  mcafured  the  earth  :  he  beheld,  and 
*'  drove  afunder  the  nations.  The  everlafting  mountains  were 
**  fcattered  ;  the  perpetual  hills  did  bow  j  his  ways  are  everlaft- 
"  iiig.  '  The  mountains  faw  thee  ;  and  they  trembled.  The 
"  overflowing  of  the  water  pafTed  by.  The  deep  uttered  his 
*'  voice,  and  lifted  up  his  hands  on  high." 

The  noted  inftance,  given  by  Longinus,  from  Mofes,  **God 
*'  faid.  Let  there  be  light  ;  and  there  was  light,"  is  not  liable  to 
the  cenfure  which  I  pafTed  on  fome  of  his  inftances,  of  being 
foreign  to  the  fubjedl.  It  belongs  to  the  true  Sublime ;  and 
the  Sublimity  of  it  arifes  from  the  ftrong  conception  it  gives, 
of  an  exertion  of  power,  producing  its  effect  with  the  utmoit 
fpeed  and  facility.  A  thought  of  the  fame  kind  is  magnificent- 
ly amplified  in  the  following  pnflage  of  Ifaiah  :  (chap.  xxiv.  24. 
27,  28.)  *'  Ihus  faith  the  Lord,  thy  Redeemer,  and  he  that 
**  formed  thee  from  the  womb  :  I  am  the  Lord  that  maketh  all 
*'  things,  that  ftretcheth  forth  the  heavens  alone,  that  fpreadeth 
"  abroad  the  earth  by  myfelf — that  faith  to  the  deep.  Be  dry,  and 
"  I  will  dry  up  thy  rivers  j  that  faith  of  Cyrus,  He  is  my  fliep- 
"  herd,  and  fliall  perform  all  my  pleafure  ;  even,  faying  tQ 
"  Jerufalem,  Thou  fiialt  be  built ;  and  tp  the  Temple,  Thy 

"  foundation 


Lect.  IV.         SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING. 


^ 


**  foundation  fhall  be  laid."  There  is  a  paflage  in  the  Pfalms, 
which  deferves  to  be  mentioned  under  this  head :  "  God," 
fays  the  Pfah-nift,  "  ftilleth  the  noife  of  the  feas,  the  noife  of 
"  their  waves,  and  the  tumuhs  of  the  people."  The  joining 
together  two  fuch  grand  obje£ls,  as  the  ragings  of  the  waters, 
and  the  tumults  of  the  people,  between  which  there  is  fo  much 
refemblance  as  to  form  a  very  natural  aflbciation  in  the  fancy, 
and  the  reprefenting  them  both  as  fubjeft,  at  one  moment, 
to  the  command  of  God,  produces  a  noble  effedl. 

Homer  is  a  poet,  who,  in  all  ages,  and  by  all  critics,  has 
been  greatly  admired  for  Sublimity  ;  and  he  owes  much  of  his 
grandeur  to  that  native  and  unafFcded  flmplicity  which  charac- 
terifes  his  manner.  His  defcriptions  of  hods  engaging  ;  the 
animation,  the  fire,  and  rapidity,  which  he  throws  into  his  bat- 
tles, prefent  to  every  reader  of  the  Iliad,  frequent  inllances  of 
Sublime  Writing.  His  introduction  of  the  gods,  tends  often, 
to  heighten,  in  a  high  degree,  the  majefly  of  his  warlike  fcenes. 
Hence  Longinus  bellows  fuch  high  and  juft  commendations 
on  that  paflage,  in  the  15th  book  of  the  Iliad,  where  Neptune, 
when  preparing  to  iflue  forth  into  the  engagement,  is  defcribed 
as  (baking  the  mountains  with  his  ftcps,  and  driving  his  chariot 
along  the  ocean.  Minerva,  arming  herfelf  for  fight  in  the  Vth 
book  ;  and  Apollo,  in  the  XV th,  leading  on  the  Trojans,  and 
flafliing  terror  with  his  jEgis  on  the  face  of  the  Greeks,  are  fimilar 
inllances  of  great  Sublimity  added  to  the  defcription  of  battles, 
by  the  appearances  of  thofe  celellial  beings.  In  the  XXth  book, 
where  all  the  gods  take  part  in  the  engagement,  according  as  they 
feverally  favour  either  the  Grecians,  or  the  Trojans,  the  poet 
fecms  to  put  forth  one  of  the  highell  efforts,  and  the  defcription 
rifes  into  the  moft  awful  magnificence.  All  nature  is  repre- 
fented  as  in  commotion.  Jupiter  thunders  in  the  heavens;  Nep- 
tune flrikes  the  earth  with  his  Trident  ;  the  fhips,  the  city,  and 
the  mountains  fliake  j  the  earth  trembles  to  its  centre  ;  Pluto 
Harts  from  his  throne,  in  dread  left  the  fecrets  of  the  infernal 
region  fliould  be  laid  open  to  the  view  of  mortals.  Tlic  paflage 
is  worthy  of  being  inferted. 

AtVaf  irn  fuf}  *cf/.t\ov  '&\vf/.-rtoi  JxuSry  atf^u^t 
XlfTO  S    Efif  x^Ttf",  Aaoycc'f  out  i'  'A&rvB, — -^ 
Aw  if     Afj'f   iTtfuiSiv,  (ff.f.'j'  Xai^BCTi  lco(,   I  I 
Us  TVS  af^J^rt^n;  yu«))«Cf'!f   £ict  c.v-i'v;»7if, 


:46  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING^.         Lect.  it. 

'Td,i'Jtv'  auTeig  ivlgii   Xlos-iriigujy  (Tiva^t 
Toitx)  itirii^ic-im,  cfSi/  t    curiiva.  nofrvX' 
Hivrrc  S'  iirtjiiotro  ■zoSi;  voKuTiSd/M    Ii"»f, 
Ka«   xcfufKi,  Tfcwv  t£  To\;f,  xaj  y^Ec  'A:^ai5i'. 
"EShia-iv  S'  uT£v?f9t»  iiia^  t*£fi'v.  'Ai'J'i'i'su»-, 
t*t<Ta(  J'  tit  6^w  o;\7o,  xai   <a;^f  /iti  o»  iwrffSl 
rix7av  «va/:/vi5ti£  Iloo'ii^ctt.n'  ivtxn^oy, 
0//.i«  ^£   i-ji-TOiai  xa<   Q;6av«70i(ri  ^vti')» 
S.ucfiTaXf',  tvou:VTa,  roc  ri    ^ymcrt  fltoi  jrff' 
T&ffffOf  a'fac  XTu^of  6)oro  6iuy  t'^ij;  ^iatiwtbv.*  Iliad,  20.  47,&C. 

The  works  of  OfTian  (as  I  have  elfewhere  fiicvvn)  abound  with 
examples  of  the  Subhme.  The  fubje£ls  of  that  Author,  and 
tlie  manner  in  which  he  writes,  are  particularly  favourable  to 
it.  He  poflcfles  all  the  plain  and  venerable  manner  of  the  an- 
cient times.  He  deals  in  no  fuperfluous  or  gaudy  ornaments; 
but  throws  forth  his  images  with  a  rapid  concifencfs,  which  enables 
tliem  to  ftrike  the  mind  with  the  greateft  force.  Among  poets 
cf  more  poliihed  times,  we  are  to  look  for  the  graces  of  corrciSl 
writing,  for  juft  proportion  of  parts,  and  fkilfully  condu£led 
narration.  In  the  niidft  of  fmiling  fcenery  and  plcafurable 
themes,  the  gay  and  the  beautiful  will  appear,  undoubtedly,  to 

more 

*  But  when  the  powers  dcfccndii)_;T  fwell'd  the  f>ght. 
Then  tuniult  rofe,  fierce  rape,  and  palf  afFrij;lit  : 
Now  through  the  trembling  fliorcs  Minerva  calls, 
And  now  llie  thunders  from  the  Grecian  walls. 
Mar;.,  hov'rlng  o'er  his  Troy,  hii  terror  flirouds 
Tn  gloomy  tcmpefls,  and  a  night  of  clouds  ; 
Now  through  each  Trojan  heart  he  tury  pours, 
With  X'oice  divine,  from  llion's  topniofl  towers-—. 
Above,  the  Sire  of  gods  his  thunder  rolls, 
And  peals  on  peals  redouiilcd  rend  the  poles; 
Beneath,  flern  Neptune  fliakes  the  fi.-lid  ground. 
The  forells  wave,  the  mnuntnins  nod  around  ; 
Throngli  all  her  fummits  tremble  Idi's  woods. 
And  trom  their  fourccs  boil  her  lumdred  floods : 
Tf  oy*s  turrets  totter  on  the  rocking  plain. 
And  the  tofi>'d  navies  beat  the  heaving  main. 
Deep  in  the  difmal  rc'^ion  of  the  dcnd, 
.    1'h'  infernal  monarch  rcar'd  his  horrid  head. 
Leapt  from  his  throne,  left  Neptune's  arm  fliould  lay 
His  da;  k  dominions  open  to  the  day ; 
And  pour  in  light  on  Pluto's  drear  abodes, 
Abhorr'd  by  men,  and  dreadful  ev'n  to  gods.  , 

Such  wars  tii'  immortals  wa^e  ;  fuch  horrors  rend 
I'hc  world's  vail  concave,  when  the  ^^odg  contend. 

PoPEv 


Ibct.IV.         sublimity  IN  WRITING.  47 

more  advantage.  But  amidfi;  the  rude  fcenes  of  nature  and  of 
Ibciety,  fuch  as  OfTian  defcribes ;  amidft  rocks  and  torrents, 
and  whirlwinds,  and  battles,  dwells  the  Sublime  j  and  naturally 
afTociates  itfclf  with  that  grave  and  fclemn  foirit  which  diftin- 
guilhes  the  Author  of  Fiiigal.  "As  autumn's  dark  dorms 
**  pour  from  two  echojng  hills,  fo  toward  each  other  approach- 
"  ed  the  heroes.  As  two  dark  (treams  from  high  rocks  meet 
*'  and  mix,  and  roar  on  the  plain  j  loud,  rough,  and  dark,  in 
*'  battle,  met  Loc'hlin  and  Inisfail :  chief  mixed  his  fhrokes 
**  with  chief,  and  man  with  man.  Steel  clanging  founded  on 
•*  fteel.  Helmets  are  cleft  on  high  :  blood  burils,  and  fmokes 
*'  around.  As  the  troubled  noife  of  the  ocean  when  roll  the 
*'  waves  on  high  ;  as  the  lad  peal  of  the  thunder  of  heaven  j 
*'  fuch  is  the  noife  of  battle.  The  groan  of  the  people  fpread 
*'  over  the  hills.  It  was  like  the  thunder  of  night,  when 
"  the  cloud  burfts  on  Cona,  and  a  thoufand  ghoflis  fliriek 
"  at  once  on  the  hollow  wind."  Never  were  images  of  more 
awful  Sublimity  employed  to  heighten  the  terror  of  battle. 

I  have  produced  thefe  inftances,  in  order  to  demonftrate  how 
elTential  concifenefs  and  fimplicity  are  to  Sublime  Writing. 
Simplicityjiplaceihoppofition  to  (ludied  and  profufe  ornamentj 
and  concifenefs,  to  fuperfluous  cxpreflion.  The  reafon  why  a 
defetl,  either  in  cbncifeneis  or  funplicity,  is  hurtful  in  a  pecu- 
liar manner  to  the  Sublime,  I  (hall  endeavour  to  explain.  The 
emotion  occafioncd  in  the  mind  by  fome  great  or  noble  objedl, 
raifes  it  confiderably  above  its  ordinary  pitch.  A  fort  of  en- 
thufiafm  is  produced,  extremely  agreeable  while  It  lafts  j  but 
from  which  the  mind  is  tending  every  moment  to  fall  dowa 
into  its  ordinary  fituation.  Now,  when  an  author  has  brought 
us,  or  is  attempting  to  bring  us,  into  this  (late  9  if  he  multiplies 
words  unnecelTlrdly  ;  if  he  decks  the  Sublime  objecl  which 
he  prefects  to  us,  round  and  round,  with  glittering  ornaments  i 
nay,  if  he  throws  in  any  one  decoration  that  finks  in  the  Icaft 
below  the  capital  image,  that  moment  he  alters  the  key  ;  he 
relaxes  the  tcnfion  of  the  mind  ;  the  drength  of  the 
feeling  is  emafculated ;  the  Beautitul  may  remain,  but  the 
Sublime  is  gone.  When  Julius  Caefar  faid  to  the  pilot 
vho  was  afraid  to  put  to  fea  with  him  in  a  ftorm,  **  Quid 

*'  timc3  i 


X 


4%  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.         Lect.IV. 

**  times?  Cxfarem  vehls;"  we  areflruck  with  the  clann|T  magna- 
nimity of  one  relying  with  fuch  confidence  on  his  caule  and  his 
fortune.  Thefe  few  words  convey  every  thing  neceflary  to  give 
us  the  impreflion  fulL  Lucan  refolved  to  amplify  and  adorn 
the  thought.  Obferve  how  every  time  he  twills  it  round, 
it  departs  farther  from  the  Sublime,  till  it  end  at  lad  in  tumid 
declamation. 

Spcrne  minas,  inquit,  pelagi,  vientoque  furenti 
Trade  finum  :   Itaiiam,  i\,  catlo  au^torc,  recufas, 
Me,  pete.     Sola  tibi  caufa  hxc  eft  jufta  timoris 
Vicftorem  non  no/Te  tuum  ;  quein  numina  nunqaam 
Deftituunt ;  de  quo  male  tunc  Fortuna  meretur 
Cum  pofh  vota  venit.     Medias  perrumpe  procellas 
Tutela  fccure  mea.     Cceli  ifli  fretique 
Non  puppis  noftras  labor  eft.    Hanc  Cajfare  preflain 
A  fluilu  defendet  onus  ;  nam  proderit  undis 

Iftaratis. Quidtanta  ftrage  paratur 

Ignoras  ?  qucerit  pelagi  coelique  tunialtu 

quid  prsftet  fortuna  mihi.* PhARS.  V.  578. 

On  account  of  the  great  importance  of  fimpllcity  and  con- 
cifenefs,  I  conceive  rhyme,  in  Englifli  verfe,  to  be,  if  not  incon- 
fiftent  with  the  Sublime,  at  leall  very  unfavourable  to  it.  The 
conftrained  elegance  of  this  kind  of  verfe,  and  ftudied  fmooth- 
nefs  of  the  founds,  anfwering  regularly  to  each  other  at  the  end 
of  the  line,  though  they  be  quite  confident  with  gentle  emo- 

tionSj 

*   But  Cjcfar  Aill  fu'perior  to  diftrefs, 
Fearlefs  and  confident  of  fare  fuccefs, 

Thus  to  the  pilot  loud  : The  feas  dtfpiftf, 

And  the  vain    thieat'ning  of  the  noify  flcies  ; 

Though  gods  deny  thee  yon  Aufonian  ftraiid. 

Yet  go,  I  charge  you,  go,  at  my  command. 

Thy  ignorance  alone  can  caiife  thy  fears, 

Thou  know'tl  not  what  a  freight  thy  yeflel  bears ; 

Thou  know'fl  not  I  am  he  to  whom  'tis  given, 

Never  to  want  the  care  of  watchful  Heaven. 

Obedient  fortune  waits  my  humble  thrall, 

And  always  ready,  comes  before  I  call. 

Let  winds,  and  feas,  loud  wars  at  freedom  wage, 

And  wafte  upon  thcmfclves  their  empty  rage, 

A  ftronger,  mightier  Dxmon  is  thy  friend, 

Thou,  and  thy  bark,  on  Casfar's  fate  depend. 

Thou  ftand'ft  amaz'd  to  view  this  dreadful  fccne, 

And  wondcr'ft  what  the  gods  and  fortune  meaa  i 

But  artfully  their  bounties  thus  they  raife, 

And  from  my  danger  arrogate  new  praife  ; 

Amidft  the  fears  of  death  they  bid  me  live, 

And  ftill  enhincc  what  they  arc  fure  to  give.  RowK 


Lect.IV.         sublimity  in  writing.  49 

tions,  yet  weaken  the  native  force  of  Sublimity  ;  befides,  that 
the  fuperfluous  words  which  the  poet  is  often  obliged  to  intro- 
duce, in  order  to  fill  up  the  rhyme,  tend  farther  to  enfeeble  it. 
Homer's  defcription  of  the  nod  of  Jupiter,  as  fhaking  the 
heavens,  has  been  admired,  in  all  ages,  as  highly  Sublime.  Lit- 
erally tranflated,  it  runs  thus  :  "  He  fpoke,  and  bending  his 
**  fable  brows,  gave  the  awful  nod  ;  while  he  Ihook  the  celeflial 
"  locks  of  his  immortal  head,  all  Olympus  was  fljakeu."  Mr. 
Pope  tranflates  it  thus  : 

He  fpoke  ;  and  awful  bends  his  fable  brows, 
Shakes  his  ambrofial  cutis,  and  gives  the  nod, 
Theftamp  offate,  and  fanftion  of  a  God. 
High  heaven  with  trembling  the  dread  lignaltook, 
And  all  Olympus  to  its  centre  fhook. 

The  image  is  fpread  out,  and  attempted  to  be  beautiful ; 
but  it  is,  in  truth,  weakened.  The  third  line — "  The  (lamp 
*'  of  fate,  and  fan£lion  of  a  God,"  is  merely  expletive  ;  and  in- 
troduced for  no  other  reafon  but  to  fill  up  the  rhyme  ;  for  it 
interrupts  the  defcription,  and  clogs  the  image.  For  the  fame 
reafon,  out  of  mere  compliance  with  the  rhyme,  Jupiter  is 
reprefented  as  fliaking  his  locks,  before  he  gives  the  nod,— 
"Shakes  his  ambrofial  curls,  and  gives  the  nod,"  which  is  trifling, 
and  without  meaning.  Whereas,  in  the  original,  the  hair  of 
his  head  (haken,  is  th-e  efFe£l  of  his  nod,  and  makes  a  happy 
pidturefque  circumftance  in  the  defcription.* 

The  boldnefs,  freedom,  and  vaiiety  of  our  blank  verfe,  is 
infinitely  more  favourable  than  rhyme,  to  all  kinds  of  Sublime 
poetry.  The  fulleft  proof  of  this  is  afforded  by  Milton  ;  an 
author,  whofe  genius  led  him  eminently  to  the  Sublime. 
The  whole  firft  and  fecond  books  of  Paradife  Loft,  are  con- 
tinued inllances  of  it.  Take  only,  for  an  example,  the  follow- 
ing noted  defcription  of  Satan,  after  his  fall,  appearing  at  the 
head  of  the  izifernal  hofts  : 

He,  above  the  reft, 

In  fliape  and  gefture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower  :  his  form  had  not  yet  loft 
All  her  original  brightnefs,  nor  appear'd 
Lefs  than  archangel  ruin'd  ;  and  the  exccfs 
Of  glory  obfcur'd  :  As  when  the  fun,  new  rifen, 

H  Looks 

•  Sec  Webb  on  the  Beauties  of  Poetry, 


50  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.         Lect.IV. 

Looks  throucrh  the  horizontal  mifty  air. 
Shorn  of  his  beams  ;  or,  from  behind  the  moon. 
In  dim  eclipfe,  difaftrous  twihght  (heds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.     Darken'd  fo,  yet  fhone 
Above  them  all  th'  archangel. 

Here  concur  a  variety  of  fources  of  the  Sublime  :  The  prin- 
cipal objeft  eminently  great  ;  a  high  fuperior  nature,  fallen 
indeed,  but  erefting  itfelf  againft  diftrefs  ;  the  grandeur  of 
the  principal  obje£l  heightened,  by  aflbciating  it  with  fo  noble 
an  idea  as  that  of  the  fun  fufFering  an  eclipfe  ;  this  pidlure 
(haded  with  all  thofe  images  of  change  and  trouble,  of  dark- 
nefs  and  terror,  which  coincide  fo  finely  with  the  Sublime 
emotion ;  and  the  whole  exprefled  in  a  flyle  and  verfification, 
eafy,  natural,  and  fimple,  but  magnificent. 

I  have  fpoken  of  fimplicity  and  ct)ncifenefs,  as  eflential  to 
Sublime  Writing.  In  my  general  defcription  of  it,  I  mentioned 
Strength,  as  another  neceffary  requifite.  The  Strength  of  de- 
fcription arifeS;  in  a  great  meafure,  from  a  fimple  concifenefs ; 
but,  it  fuppofes  alfo  fomething  more  •,  namely,  a  proper  choice 
of  circumftances  in  the  defcription,  fo  as  to  exhibit  the  obje£l 
in  its  full  and  moil  ftriking  point  of  view.  <  For  every  obje£t 
has  feveral  faces,  fo  to  fpeak,  by  which  it  may  be  prefented  to 
us,  according  to  the  circumftances  with  which  v/e  furround  it ; 
and  it  will  appear  eminently  Sublime,  or  not,  in  proportion  as 
all  thefe  circumftances  are  happily  chofen,  and  of  a  Sublime 
kind.  Here  lies  the  great  art  of  the  writer ;  and,  indeed,  the 
great  difficulty  of  Sublime  defcription.  If  the  defcription  be 
too  general,  and  diverted  of  circumftances,  the  objeft  appears 
in  a  iaint  light;  it  makes  a  feeble  imprtftion,  or  no  imprefllon 
at  all.,  on  the  rea'-er.  At  the  fame  time,  if  any  trivial  or  im- 
proper circumftances  are  mingled,  the  whole  is  degraded. 

A  ftorm  or  tempeft,  for  inftance,  is  a  Sublime  obje<Si:  in  na- 
ture. But,  to  render  it  Sublime  in  defcription,  it  is  not  enough, 
either  to  give  us  mere  general  exprcffions  concerning  the  vio- 
lence of  the  tempeft,  or  to  defcribe  its  common,  vulgar  efFe£ls, 
in  overthrowing  trees  and  houfes.  It  muft  be  painted  with  fuch 
circumftances  as  fill  the  mind  with  great  and  awful  ideas.  This 
is  very  happily  done  by  Virgil,  in  the  following  paflage  : 

Ipfe 


Lect.IV.         sublimity  in  writing.  51 

Ipfe  Pater,  media  nimborum  in  no£le,  corufca  *    • 

Fulmina  molitur  dextra  ;  quo  maxima  motu 

Terra  tremit ;  fugere  ferse  ;  &  mortalia  corda 

Per  gentes  humilis  ftravit  pavor  :  Ille,  flagranti 

Aut  Atho,  aut  Rhodopen,  aut  alta  Ceraunia  telo 

Dejicit.* Geor.  I. 

Every  circumftance  in  this  noble  defcription  is  the  produc- 
tion of  an  imagination  heated  and  aftonillied  with  the  grandeur 
of  the  objed-  If  there  be  any  defedl,  it  is  in  the  words  im- 
mediately following  thofe  I  have  quoted  :  "  Ingcminant  Auftri, 
**  et  denfiflimus  imber  ;"  where  the  tranfition  is  made  too  haf- 
tily,  I  am  afraid,  from  the  preceding  Sublime  images,  to  a  thick 
fliower,  and  the  blowing  of  the  fouth  wind  ;  and  fliews  hovw 
difficult  it  frequently  is,  to  defcend  with  grace,  without  feeming 
to  fall. 

The  high  importance  of  the  rule  which  I  have  been  now 
giving,  concerning  the  proper  choice  of  circumftances,  when 
defcription  is  meant  to  be  Sublime,  feems  to  me  not  to  have 
been  fufficiently  attended  to.  It  has,  hov/ever,  fuch  a  founda- 
tion in  nature,  as  renders  the  leaft  deflexion  from  it  fatal. 
When  a  writer  is  aiming  at  the  beautiful  only,  his  defcriptions 
may  have  improprieties  in  them,  and  yet  be  beautiful  dill. 
Some  trivial,  or  misjudged  circumftances,  can  be  overlooked  by 
the  reader  ;  they  make  only  the  difference  of  more  or  lefs  ;  the 
gay,  or  pleafmg  emotion,  which  he  has  raifed,  fubfxfts  ftill. 
But  the  cafe  is  quite  different  with  the  Sublime.  There,  one 
trifling  circumflance,  one  mean  idea,  is  fufHcient  to  deilroy  the 
whole  charm.  This  is  owing  to  the  nature  of  the  emotioa 
aimed  at  by  Sublime  defcription,  which  admits  of-  no  medioc- 
rity, and  cannot  fubfifl  in  a  middle  ftate ;  but  muft  either  highly 
tranfport  us,  or,  if  unfuccefsful  in  the  execution,  leave  us 

greatly 

*  The  Father  of  the  gods  his  glory  flirouds, 
Involv'd  in  tenipefts,  and  a  niglu  of  clouds; 
And  from  the  middle  darknefs  flafliing  out,  ^^ 
By  fits  he  deals  his«fiery  bolts  ahout. 
Earth  feels  the  motions  of  her  angry  God, 
Her  entrails, tremble,  and  her  mountains  ood, 
And  flying  hearts  in  forcfls  ftek  abode. 
Deep  horror  feizcs  every  human  breaft ; 
Their  pride  is  humbled,  and  their  fears  confefl; 
While  he,  from  high  his  rolling  thunders  throws, 
And  fires  the  mountains  with  repeated  blows; 
The  rocks  are  from  their  old  foundations  tent, 
Tlii  wiuda  redouble,  and  the  rains  au^jment,  Prtdzn. 


^p  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.         Lect.  IV. 

greatly  difgufted  and  difpleafed.  We  attempt  to  rife  along 
with  the  writer  ;  the  imagination  is  awakened,  and  put  upon 
the  ftretch  j  but  it  requires  to  be  fupported  ;  and  if,  in  the 
midft  of  its  efforts,  you  defert  it  unexpectedly,  down  it  comes 
with  a  painful  (hock.  "When  Milton,  in  his  battle  of  the  angels, 
defcribes  them  as  tearing  up  the  mountains,  and  throwing 
them  at  one  another  -,  there  are,  in  his  defcription,  as  Mr. 
Addifon  has  cbferved,  no  circumftances  but  what  are  properly 
Sublime : 

From  their  foundations  Joos'tiing'  to  and  fro, 
They  pluck'd  the  feated  hills,  with  all  their  load> 
Kocks,  vv'aters,  woods  ;  and  by  the  fhaggy  tops 
Uplifting,  bore  them  in  their  hands. — 

Whereas  Claudian,  in  a  fragment  upon  the  wars  of  the  giants, 
has  contrived  to  render  this  idea  of  their  throwing  the  moun- 
tains, which  is  in  itfelf  fo  grand,  burlefque  and. ridiculous  ; 
by  this  finglc  circumflance,  of  one  of  his  giants  with  the 
jnountain  Ida  upon  his  fhoulders,  and  a  river,  which  flowed 
from  the  mountain,  running  down  along  the  giant's  back,  as 
he  held  it  up  in  that  poflure.  There  is  a  defcription  too  in 
Virgil,  which,  I  think,  is  cenfurable,  though  more  (lightly  in 
this  refpe(fl.  It  is  that  of  the  burning  mountain  jEtna  ;  a 
fubjedl  certainly  very  proper  to  be  worked  up  by  a*  poet  inta 
a  Sublime  defcription : 

-Horrificis  juxta  tonat  JEtna  ruinis. 


Interdumque  atram  prorumpit  ad  sthera  nubem,. 

Turbine  fumantem  piceo,  ^  candente  favilla  ; 

Attollitqive  globos  flamniari)m,&  iidera  lambit.  '    • 

Interdum  fcopulos,  avulfaque  vifcera  mentis 

Erigit  erudans,  liquefadaque  iaxa  fub  auras 

Cum  gemitu  gloinerat,  fundoquc  exasftuat  imo.^  JEu.  III.  577. 

Here,  after  feveral  magnificent  images,   the  poet   conc]ud"es 
with  perfonifying  the  mountain  under  this  figure,   "  erucf^ans 

"  vifcera 
*  The  port  capacious,  and  fccurc  from  windj 
Is  to  the  foot  of  thmulering  i£tna  joift'd : 
By  turns  a  pitchy  ch)ud  flie  rolls  on  higlt, 
By  turns  hot  embers  from  her  tntraiib  fly,    ^ 
And  flakes  of  mounting  flamts  that  lick  the  flcy. 
Olt  from  her  bowels  mafly  rock"-,  are  thrown, 
Ain\  fliiver'd  by  the  force,  come  piece-meat  down. 
Oft  L'ljuid  lakts  of  burning  ful]iJuir  flow, 

Fed  from  the  fiery  fpringr.  that  boil  btlow.  Drydhv. 

In  this  tranflation  of  Dryden's,  the  dcbafing  circumPcance  to  vhich  I  objecfh 
iftthc  original,  is,  with  propuety,  omiti-td. 


Lect.  IV.         SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  53 

**  vifcera  cum  gemitu,"  belching  up  its  bowels  with  a  groan  ; 
which,  by  likening  the  mountain  to  a  fick  or  drunk  perfon, 
degrades  the  majefty  of  the  dcfcription.  It  is  to  no  purpofc 
to  teU  us,  that  the  poet  here  alludes  to  the  fable  of  the  giant 
Enceladus  lying  under  Mount  ^tna ;  and  that  he  fuppofes 
his  motions  and  toflings  to  have  occafioned  the  fiery  eruptions. 
He  intended  the  defcription  of  a  Sublime  obje£t ;  and  the  nat- 
ural ideas,  railed  by  a  burning  mountain,  are  infinitely  more 
lofty,  than  the  belchings  of  any  giant,  how  huge  foever.  The 
debafing  effect  of  the  idea  which  is  here  prefented,  will  appear 
in  a  flronger  light,  by  feeing  what  figure  it  makes  in  a  poem 
of  Sir  Richard  Blackniore's,  who,  through  a  monflrous  pervcrfi- 
ty  of  tafte,  had  chofen  this  for  the  capital  circumftance  in  his 
defcription,  and  tliereby  (as  Dr.  Arbuthnot  humoroufly  ob- 
ferves,  in  his  Treatife  on  the  Art  of  Sinking)  had  reprefented 
the  mountain  as  in  a  fit  of  the  colic. 

JEtna,  and  all  the  burning  mountains  find 

Their  kindled  ftores  with  inbred  ftorms  of  wind 

Blown  up  to  rage,  and  roaring  out  complain, 

As  torn  with  inward  gripes,  and  torturing  pain  ; 

Labouring,  they  caft  their  dreadful  vomit  round. 

And  \/i\h  their  melted  bowels  fpread  the  ground.  * 

Such  inftances  fliew  how  much  the  Sublime  depends  upon 
a  juft  feleclion  of  circumftances  •,.  and  with  how  great  care 
every  circumftance  mufl  be  avoided,  which,  by  bordering  in 
the  leaft  upon  the  mean,  or  even  upon  the  gay  or  the  trifling, 
alters  the  tone  of  the  emotion. 

If  it  fliall  be  nov/  inquired,  What  are  the  proper  fources 
of  the  Sublime  .''  My  anfwer  is,  That  they  are  to  be  looked 
for  every  where  in  nature.  It  is  not  by  hunting  after  tropes, 
and  figures,  and  rhetorical  afliftanccs,  that  we  can  expe6t  to 
produce  it.  No  :  it  ftands  clear,  for  the  mod  part,  of  thefc 
laboured  refinements  of  art.  It  mud  come  unfought,  if  it 
come  at  all  -,  and  be  the  natural  offspring  of  a  llrorg  im:ig- 
iuation.  , 

Eft  Deus  in  nobis  ;  agitante  calefcimus  illo. 

Wherever  a  great  and  awful  objecCt  is  prefented  in  nature, 
or  a  very  magnanimous  and  exalted  affe£lion  of  the  human 
mind  is  difplaycd  j  thence,  if  you  can  catch  the  impreflion 

flrongly, 


54  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.         Lect.IV. 

flrongly,  and  exhibit  it  warm  and  glowing,  you  may  draw  the 
Sublime.  Thefe  are  its  only  proper  fources.  In  judging  of 
any  flriking  beauty  in  compofition,  whether  it  is,  or  is  not, 
to  be  referred  to  this  clafs,  we  mufi:  attend  to  the  nature  of  the 
emotion  which  it  raifes  ;  and  only,  if  it  be  of  that  elevating, 
folemn,  and  awful  kind,  which  diftinguilhes  this  feeling,  we 
can  pronounce  it  Sublime. 

From  the  account  which  I  have  given  of  the  nature  of  the 
Sublime,  it  clearly  follows,  that  it  is  an  emotion  which  can 
never  be  long  protradled.  The  mind,  by  no  force  of  genius, 
can  be  kept,  for  any  confiderable  time,  fo  far  raifed  above  its 
common  tone  ;  but  will,  of  courfe,  relax  into  its  ordinary  fit- 
uation.  Neither  are  the  abilities  of  any  human  writer  fuf- 
ficient  to  fupply  a  continued  run  of  unmixed  Sublime  concep- 
tions. The  utmoft  we  can  expe6l  is,  that  this  fire  of  imagi- 
nation fhould  fometimes  flafh  upon  us  like  lightning  from 
heaven,  and  then  difappear.  In  Homer  and  Milton,  this  ef- 
fulgence of  genius  breaks  forth  more  frequently,  and  with 
greater  luflre,  than  in  moft  authors.  Shakefpeare  alfo  rifes 
often  into  the  true  Sublime.  But  no  author  whatever  is  Sub- 
lime throughout.  Some,  indeed,  there  are,  who,  by  a  ftrength 
and  dignity  in  their  conceptions,  and  a  current  of  high  ideas  that 
runs  through  the  whole  compofition,  preferve  the  reader's 
mind  always  in  a  tone  nearly  allied  to  the  Sublime  ;  for  which 
reafon  they  may,  in'  a  limited  fenfe,  merit  the  name  of  con- 
tinued Sublime  writers  ;  and,  in  this  clafs,  w^  may  juftly  place 
Deraoflhenes  and  Plato. 

As  for  what  is  called  the  Sublime  ftyle,  it  is,  for  the  moft 
part,  a  very  bad  one  ;  and  has  no  relation,  whatever,  to  the 
real  Sublime.  Perfons  are  apt  to  imagine,  that  magnificent 
words,  accumulated  epithets,  and  a  certain  fwelling  kind  of 
expreffion,  by  rifing  above  what  is  ufual  or  vulgar,  contributes 
to,  or  even  forms,  the  Sublime.  Nothing  can  be  more  falfe. 
In  all  the  inftances  of  Sublime  Writing,  which  I  have  given, 
nothing  of  this  kind  appears.  "  God  faid,  Let  there  be  light, 
*'  and  there  was  light."  This  is  ftriking  and  Sublime.  But 
put  it  into  what  is  commonly  called  the  Sublime  ftyle  :  "  The 
*'  Sovereign  Arbiter  of  nature,  by  the  potent  energy  of  a 
**  fingle  word,  commanded  the  light  to  exift  j"  and,  as  Boi- 

leau 


Lect.  IV.         SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  jj 

leau  has  well  obferved,  the  ftyle  indeed  is  ralfed,  but  the 
thought  is  fallen.  In  general,  in  all  good  writing,  the  Sublime 
lies  in  the  thought,  not  in  the  words  j  and  when  the  thought 
is  truly  noble,  it  will,  for  the  moft  part,  clothe  itfelf  in  a  na- 
tive dignity  of  language.  The  Sublime,  indeed,  rcjedls  mean, 
low,  or  trivial  expreflions  ;  but  it  is  equally  an  enemy  to  fuch 
as  are  turgid.  The  main  fecret  of  being  Sublime,  is  to  fay 
great  things  in  few  and  plain  words.  It  will  be  found  to 
hold,  without  exception,  that  the  mod  Sublime  authors  are  the 
Cmpleft  in  their  ftyle  ;  and  wherever  you  find  a  writer,  who 
afFe£l:s  a  more  than  ordinary  pomp  and  parade  of  words,  and 
is  always  endeavouring  to  magnify  his  fubjedl  by  epithets,  there 
you  may  immediately  iufpe6l,  that,  feeble  in  fentiment,  he  is 
ftudying  to  fupport  himfelf  by  mere  expreflion. 

The  fame  unfavourable  judgment  we  muft  pafs,  on  all  that  la- 
boured apparatus  with  which  fome  writers  introduce  a  pairage,or 
defcription,  which  they  intend  {hall  be  Sublime  ;  calling  on 
their  readers  to  attend,  invoking  their  mufe,  or  breaking  forth 
into  general,  unmeaning  exclamations,  concerning  the  greatnefs, 
terriblenefs,  or  majefty  of  the  objeft,  which  they  are  to  defcribe. 
Mr.  Addifon,  in  his  Campaign,  has  fallen  into  an  error  of  this 
kind,  when  about  to  defcribe  the  battle  of  Blenheim. 

But  !  O  my  Mufe  !  what  numbers  wilt  thou  find 
To  fitig  the  furious  troops  in  battle  join'd  ? 
Methinks,  I  hear  the  drum's  tumultuous  found, 
The  vidor's  fhouts,  and  dying  groans,  confound;  See. 

Introdu^lions  of  this  kind,  are  a  forced  attempt  in  a  writer, 
to  fpur  up  himfelf,  and  his  reader,  when  he  finds  his  imagina- 
tion flagging  in  vigour.  It  is  like  taking  artificial  fpirits  int 
order  to  fupply  the  want  of  fuch  as  are  natural.  By  this  ob- 
fervation,  however,  I  do  not  mean  to  pafs  a  general  cenfure 
on  Mr.  Addifon's  Campaign,  which,  in  feveraf  places,  is  far 
from  wanting  merit ;  and  in  particular,  the  noted  coniparifon 
of  his  hero  to  the  angel  who  rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  di- 
redls  the  ftorm,  is  a  truly  Sublime  image. 

The  faults  oppofite  to  the  Sublime  are  chiefly  two  :  the  Frigid* 
and  the  Bombaft.  The  Frigid  confifts,  in  degrading  anobjeil, 
or  fentiment,  which  is  Sublime  in  itfelf,  by  our  mean  concep- 
tion of  it  i  or  by  our  weak,  low,  and  childifti  defcription  of  it. 

This 


55  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.         Lect.  IV. 

This  betrays  entire  abfcnce,  or  at  leaft  great  poverty  of  genius. 
Of  this,  there  are  abundance  of  examples,  and  thefe  commented 
upon  with  much  humour,  in  the  Treatife  on  the  art  of  Sinking, 
in  Dean  Swift's  works  ;  the  inftances  taken  chiefly  from  Sir 
Richard  Blackmore.  One  of  thefc,  I  had  occafion  already  to 
give,  in  relation  to  Mount  -/Etna,  and  it  were  needlefs  to  pro- 
duce any  more.  The  Bombaft  lies,  in  forcing  an  ordinary  or 
trivial  obje£l  out  of  its  rank,  and  endeavouring  to  raife  it  into 
the  Sublime ;  or,  in  attempting  to  exalt  a  Sublime  obje6l  beyond 
all  natural  and  reafonable  bounds.  Into  this  error,  which  is 
but  too  common,  writers  of  genius  may  fometimes  fall,  by  un- 
luckily lofing  fight  of  the  true  point  of  the  Sublime.  This  is  alfo 
called  fuflian,  or  rant.  Shakefpeare,  a  great,  but  incorredl  ge- 
nius, is  not  unexceptionable  here.  Dryden  and  Lee,  in  their 
tragedies,  abound  with  it. 

Thus  far  of  the  Sublime  -,  of  which  I  have  treated  fully,  be- 
caufe  it  is  fo  capital  an  excellency  in  fine  writing,  and  becaufc 
clear  and  precife  ideas  on  this  head  are,  as  far  as  I  know,  not 
to  be  met  with  in  critical  writers. 

Before  concluding  thisLe£ture,  there  is  oneobfervation  which 
I  choofe  to  make  at  this  time  •,  I  fliall  make  it  once  for  all,  and 
hope  it  will  be  afterwards  remembered.  It  is  with  rcfpe£l  to 
the  inftances  of  faults,  or  rather  blemirties  and  Imperfedlions, 
which,  as  I  have  done  in  this  Le£lure,  I  fliall  hereafter  con- 
tinue to  take,  when  I  can,  from  writers  of  reputation.  I  have 
not  the  leaft  intention  thereby  to  difparage  their  character  in 
the  general.  1  fhall  have  other  occafions  of  doing  equal  juftice 
to  their  beauties.  But  it  is  no  refletlion  on  any  human  per- 
foi-mance,  that  it  is  not  abfolately  perfect.  The  taljc  would  be 
much  eafier  for  me,  to  colle£t  inftances  of  faults  from  bad  wri- 
ters. But  they  v/ould  draw  no  attention,  when  quoted  from 
books  which  nobody  reads.  And  I  conceive,  that  the  method 
which  I  follow,  will  contribute  more  to  make  the  bcft  authors 
be  read  with  pleafure,  when  one  properly  diftinguiflies  their 
beauties  from  their  faults ;  and  is  led  to  imitate  and  admire  on- 
ly what  is  worthy  of  imitation  and  admiration. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        V. 


BEAUTY,  AND  OTHER  PLEASURES  OF  TASTE. 

xjlS  Sublimity  conftitutes  a  particular  character  of  com- 
pofition,  and  forms  one  of  the  higheft  excellencies  of  eloquence 
and  of  poetry,  it  was  proper  to  treat  of  it  at  feme  length.  It  will 
not  be  neccfl'ary  to  difcufs  fo  particularly  all  the  other  pleafurej 
that  arife  from  Tafte,  as  fome  of  them  have  lefs  relation  to  our 
main  fubjedl.  On  Beauty  only  I  fhall  make  feveral  obferva- 
tions,  both  as  tike  fubjcil  is  curious,  and  as  it  tends  to  improve 
Tafte,  and  to  dlfcover  the  foundation  of  feveral  of  the  graces 
of  defcription  and  of  poetry.* 

Beauty,  next  to  Sublimity,  affords,  beyond  doubt,  the  high- 
eft  pleafuxe  to  the  imagination.  The  emotion  which  it  raifes» 
is  very  diftinguifliable  from  that  of  Sublimity.  It  is  of  a  calm- 
er kind  ;  more  gentle  and  foothing  ;  does  not  elevate  the  mind 
fo  much,  but  produces  an  agreeable  ferenity.  Sublimity  raifes 
a  feeling,  too  violent,  as  I  fliowed,  to  be  lafting  ;  the  pleafure 
arifing  from  Beauty  admits  of  longer  continuance.  It  extends 
alfo  to  a  much  greater  variety  of  obje£ls  than  Sublimity  ;  to  a 
variety  indeed  fo  great,  that  the  feelings  which  Beautiful  ob- 
jects px-oduce,  differ  confiderably,  not  in  degree  only,  but 
alfo  in  kind,  fronv  one  another.  Hence,  no  word  in  the  lan- 
guage is  ufed  in  a  more  vague  fignification  than  Beauty.  It  is 
applied  to  almoft  every  external  object  that  pleafcs  the  eye,  or 
the  car  ;  to  a  great  number  of  the  graces  of  writing  ;  to  many 
difpofitions  of  the  mind  ;  nay,  to  feveral  objedls  of  mere  abftra£l 
fcience.  We  talk  currently  of  a  beautiful  tree  or  flower  ;  a 
beautiful  poem  ;  a  beautiful  character  j  and  a  beautiful  theo- 
rem in  mathematics. 

I  Hence 

•  Spe  Hutch  in  fon's  Enquiry  concerning  Beauty  and  Virtue. — Gerard  oa 
Taflc,  chap.  iii. — Enquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and 
He»utiful. — Elements  of  Cfilicifm,  chap.  iii. — Spedlator,  vol.  vi.— fiflay  oq  the 
PItaruje*  oi  Tafte, 


^8  '  BEAUTY.  Lect.V. 

Hence  we  may  eaGIy  perceive,  that,  among  fo  great  a  variety 
of  objects,  to  find  out  Tome  one  quality  in  which  they  all  agree, 
and  which  is  the  foundation  of  that, agreeable  fenfation  they 
all  raife,  muft  be  a  "very  difScult,  if  nor,  more  probably,  a  vain 
attempt.  Objecfls,  denominated  Beautiful,  are  fo  different,  as 
to  pleafe,  not  in  virtue  of  any  one  quality  common  to  them  all, 
but  by  means  of  fevcral  different  principles  in  human  nature. 
The  agreeable  Amotion  which  they  all  raife,  is  fomewhat  of 
the  fame  nature ;  and  therefore,  has  the  common  name  of  Beau- 
ty given  to  it ;  but  it  is  raifcd  by  different  caufcs. 
■  Hypothefes,  however,  have  been  framed  by  ingenious  men, 
for  afligning  the  fundamental  quality  of  Beauty  in  all  objefls. 
In  particular,  Uniformity  amidft  Variety,  has  been  infifted  on 
as  this  fundamental  quality.  For  the  Beauty  of  many  figures, 
I  admit  that  this  accounts  in  a  fatisfadlory  manner.  But  when 
we  endeavour  to  apply  this  principle  to  Beautiful  objefts  of 
fome  other  kindi  as  to  Colour,  for  inftance,  or  Motion,  we  fliall 
foon  find  that  it  has  no  place.  And  even  in  external  figured 
obje£ls,  it  does  not  hold,  that  their  Beauty  is  in  proportion  to 
their  mixture  of  Variety  with  Uniformity  ;  feeing  many  pleafe 
lis  as  highly  Beautiful,  which  have  almoft  no  Variety  at  all  ; 
and  others,  which  are  various  to  a  degree  of  intricacy.  Laying 
fyftems  of  this  kind,  therefore,  afide,  wliat  I  now  propofe  is,  to 
give  an  enumeration  of  fevcral  of  thcfe  claflcs  of  obje£ls  in 
which  Beauty  mod  remarkably  appears  ;  and  to  point  out,  as 
far  as  I  can,  tlie  feparate  principles  of  Beauty  in  each  of  them. 

Colour  affords,  perhaps,  the  fimplefl:  inftapce  of  Beauty,  and 
therefore  the  fitted  to  begin  with.  Here,  neither  Variety,  nor 
Uniformity,  nor  any  other  principle  that  T  know,  canbeaffign- 
cd,  as  the  foundation  of  Beauty,  t  We  can  refer  it  to  no  other 
caufe  but  the  ftru£lure  of  the  eye,  which  determines  us  to  re- 
ceive certain  modifications  of  the  rays  of  lightwith  morepleafure 
than  others.  Ami  we  fee  accordingly,  that,  as  the  organ  of  fen*- 
fation  varies  in  different  perfons,  they  have  theirdlfferent  favourite 
colours.  It  is  probable,  that  affociation  of  ideas  has  influence, 
in  fome  cafes,  on  the  pleafure  which  we  receive  from  colours. 
Green,  for  inftance,  may  appear  more  beautiful,  by  being  conne£l-« 
cd  in  our  ideas  with  rural  profpe61:s  and  fcenes;  white,  with  inno- 
cence i  blue,  with  the  ferenity  of  the  Iky.    Independent  of  affo- 

ciations 


Lect.V.  beauty.  si 

ciations  of  this  kind,  all  that  we  can  farther  obfervc  concerning 
colours  is,  that  thoic  chofcn  for  Beauty  are,^genera]Iy,  delicate, 
rather  than  glaring.     Such  are  thofe  paintings  with  which  na- 
ture hath  ornamented  fomeofher  works,  and  which  art'ftrives 
in  vain  to  imitate  ;  as  the  feathers  of  fcveral  kinds  of  birds,  the 
leaves,  of  flowers,  and  the  fine  variation  of  colours  exhibited 
by  the  fky  at  the  rifing  and  fetting  of  the  fun.     Thefe  prefent 
to  us  the  highcfl  inllances  of  the  Beauty  of  colouring  ;  and  have 
accordingly  be^n  the  favourite  fubjecls  of  poetical  defcription  in 
:ill  countries^ 
/        From.  Colour  we  proceed  to  Figure,  which  opens  to  us  forms 
of  Beauty  more  complex  and  diverfified.     Regularity  firft  oc- 
curs to  be  noticed  as  a  fource  of  Beauty.     By  a  regular  figure. 
Is  meant,  one  which  we  perceive  to  be  formed  according  to 
fome  certain  rule,  and  not  left  arbitrary,  or  loofe,  in  the  con- 
ftruiElion  of  its  parts.     Thus,  a  circle,  a  fquare,  a  triangle,  or 
a  hexagon,  pleale  the  eye,  by  their  regularity,  as  beautiful  fig- 
ures.    We  mult  not,  however,  conclude,  that  all  figures  pleafe 
in  proportion  to  their  regularity  ;  or  that  regularity  is  the  fole, 
or  the  chief,  foundation  of  Beauty  in  figure.     On  the  contrary, 
a  certain  graceful  variety  is  found  to  be  a  much  more  powerful 
principle  of  Beauty  ;  and  is  therefore  (ludigd  a  great  deal  more 
than  regularity,  in  all  works  that  are  dcfigaed  merely  to  pleafe 
the  eye.  ,'  I  am,  indeed,  inclined  to  think,  that  regularity  ap-  ■ 
pears  beautiful  to  us,  chiefly,  if  not  only,  on  account  of  itsfug- 
gefting  the  ideas  of  fitnefs,  propriety,  and  ufe,  which  have  al- 
ways a  greater  connexion  with  orderly  and  proportioned  forms, 
than  with  thofe  which  appear  not  conllrufted  according  to  any 
certain  rule.     It  is  clear,  that  nature,  who  is  undoubtedly  the 
moil  graceful  artill,  hath,  in  all  her  ornamental  works,  purfued 
variety,  with  an  apparent  negUx'l  of  regularity.    Cabinets,  doors, 
and  windows,  are  made  after  a  regular  form,  in  cubes  and  par- 
allelograms, with  exatl  proportion  of  parts  ;  and  by  being  16 
formed  they  pleafe  the  eye  ;  for  this  good  reafon,  that,  being 
V'orks  of  ufe,  they  are  by  fuch  figures,  the  better  fuited  to  the 
ends  for  which  tlicy  were  defigned.     But  plants,  flowers,  and 
leaves  are  full  of  variety  and  diverfity.     A  flraight  canal  is  an 
infipid  figure,  in  comparifon  of  the  meanders  of  rivers.     Cones 
and  pyramids  arc  bezutiful ;  but  trees  gvowin;^  in  their  natural 

wiidnefs. 


69  BEAUTY.  Lect.V. 

wildnefs,  are  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  when  trimmed  into 
pyramids  and  cones.  The  apartments  of  a  houfe  mufl  be  reg- 
ular in  their  difpcfition,  for  the  conveniency  of  its  inhabitants ; 
but  a  garden,  which  is  defigned  merely  for  Beauty,  would  be 
exceedingly  difgufting,  if  it  had  as  much  uniformity  and  order 
in  its  parts  as  a  dwelling-houfe.  ,« 

Mr.  Hogarth,  in  his  Analyfis  of  Beauty,  has  obferved,  that 
figures  bounded  by  curve  lines  are,  in  general,  more  beautiful 
than  thofe  bounded  by  flraight  lines  and  angles.  He  pitches 
upon  two  lines,  on  which,  according  to  him,  the  Beauty  of 
figure  principally  depends  ;  and  he  has  illuftrated  and  fupport- 
cd  his  do£lrine,  by  a  furprifing  number  of  inrtances.  The  one 
is  the  Waving  Line,  or  a  curve  bending  backwards  and  for- 
wards, fomewhat  in  the  form  of  the  letter  S.  This  he  calls  the 
Line  of  Beauty  j  and  fliews  how  often  it  is  found  in  fliells, 
flowers,  and  fuch  other  ornamental  M-orks  of  nature-,  as  is 
common  alfo  in  the  figures  defigned  by  painters  and  fculptors, 
for  the  purpofe  of  decoration.  The  other  Line,  which  he. calls 
the  Line  of  Grace,  is  the  former  waving  curve,  twifted  round 
fome  fohd  body.  The  curling  worm  of  a  common  jack  is  one 
of  the  inftances  he  gives  of  it.  Twifted  pillars,  and  twilled 
horns,  alfo  exhibit  it.  Li  all  the  inftances  which  he  mentions, 
Variety  plainly  appears  to  be  fo  maicrial  a  principle  of  Beauty, 
that  he  feems  not  to  err  much  when  he  defines  the  art  of  draw- 
ing pleafing  forms,  to  be  the  art  of  varying  well.  For  the 
curve  line,  fo  much  the  favourite  of  painters,  derives,  accord- , 
ing  to  him,  its  chief  advantage,  from  its  perpetual  bending  and 
variation  from  the  fllft  regularity  of  the  itralght  line. 

Motion  furnilhes  another  fource  of  Beauty,  diftincl  from 
Figure.  Motion  of  itfelf  is  pleafing  ;  and  bodies  in  motion 
are,  "  caeterls  paribus,"  preferred  to  tliofc  in  reft.  It  is,  how- 
ever, only  gentle  motion  that  belongs  to  the  Beautiful ;  for 
•when  it  is  very  fwift,  or  very  forcible,  fuch  as  that  of  a  torrent, 
it  partakes  of  the  Sublime.  The  motion  of  a  bird  gliding 
through  the  air,  is  extremely  Beautiful ;  the  fwiftnefs  with 
which  lightning  darts  through  the  heavens,  is  magnificent  and 
aftonifhlng.  '  And  here,  it  Is  proper  to  obferve,  that  the  fenfa- 
tions  of  Sublime  and  Beautiful  are  not  always  diftinguiflied  by 
very  ciftant  boundaries  ;  but  are  capable,  in  feverai  inftances, 

of 


UcT.V,  BEAUTY.  6i 

of  approaching  tov/ards  each  other.  Thus,  a  fmooth  running 
ftream,  is  one  of  the  mod  Beautiful  objects  in  nature  :  as  it 
fwells  gradually  into  a  great  xiver,  the  Beautiful,  by  degrees,  is 
loft  in  the  Sublime.  A  young  tree  is  a  Beautiful  obje£l: ;  a 
fpreading  ancient  oak,  is  a  venerable  and  a  grand  one.  The 
calmnefs  of  a  fine  morning  is  Beautiful ;  the  univerfal  ftillnefs 
of  the  evening  is  highly  Sublime.  But  to  return  to.  the  Beauty 
of  motion,  it  will-  be  found,  I  think,  to  hold  very  generally, 
that  motion  in  a  ftraight  line  is  not  fo  Beautiful  as  in  an  un- 
dulating waving  direftion  ;  and  motion  upwards  is,  commonly 
too,  more  agreeable  than  motion  downwards.  The  eafy  curl- 
ing motion  of  flame  and  fmoke  may  be  inftanced,  as  an  obie6b 
fmgularly  agreeable :  and  here  Mr.  Hogarth's  waving  line  re- 
curs upon  us  as  a  principle  of  Beauty.  That  artift  obferves 
very  ingeniouHy,  that  all  the  common  and  neceffary  motions 
for  the  bufmefs  of  life,  are  performed  by  men  in  ftraight  or 
plain  lines :  but  that  all  the  graceful  and  ornamental  move- 
ments are  made  in  waving  lines  :  an  obfcrvation  not  unworthy 
of  being  attended  to,  by  all  who  ftudy  the^  grace  of  gefture 
and  a£lion. 

Though  Colour,  Figure,  and  Motion,  be  feparate  principles 
of  Beauty  ;  yet  in  many  beautiful  objefts  they  all  meet,  and 
thereby  render  the  Beauty  both  greater,  and  more  complex. 
Thus,  in  flowers,  trees,  animals,  we  are  entertained  at  once 
with  the  delicacy  of  the  colour,  with  the  gracefulnefs  of  the 
figure,  and  fometimes  alfo  with  the  motion  of  the  obje£l. 
Although  each  of  theie  produce  a  feparate  agreeable  fcnfation, 
yet  they  are  of  fuch  a  fimilar  nature,  as  readily  to  mix  and  blend 
in  one  general  perception  of  Beauty,  which  we  afcribe  to  the 
whole  obje£l:  as  its  caufe  :  For  Beauty  is  always  conceived  by 
us,  as  fomething  rcfiding  in  the  objedt  which  raifes  the  pleafant 
fenfation  ;  a  fort  of  glory  which  dwells  upon,  and  invcfts  it. 
Perhaps  the  moft  complete  afllmblnge  of  Beautiful  objedls  that 
can  any  where  be  found,  is-prefented  by  a  rich  natural  land- 
Icape,  where  there  is  a  fufhcient  variety  of  objefts  :  fields  in 
verdure,  fcattered  trees  and  flowers,  running  water,  and  ani- 
mals grazing.  If  to  thefe  be  joined,  fome  of  the  produ£lions 
of  art,  which  fuit  fuch  a  fcene  ;  as  a  bridge  with  arches  over 
a  river,  fmoke  rifing  from  cottages  in  the  midft  of  trees,  and 
the  diftant  view  of  a  fine  building  feen  by  the  rifing  fun  ;  we 

then 


62  BEAUTY.  Lect.V. 

then  enjoy,  in  the  higheft  per£e£lion,  that  gay,  cheerful,  and 
placid  fenfation  which  chara£teiifes  Beauty.  To  have  an  eye 
and  a  tafle  formed  for  catching  the  peculiar  Beauties  of  fuch 
fcenes  as  thcfe,  is  a  neceflary  rcquifite  for  all  who  attempt  po- 
etical dcfcription. 

The  Beauty  of  the  human  countenance  is  more  complex 
than  any  that  we  have  yet  confidered.  It  includes  the  Beauty 
of  colour,  arifing  from  the  delicate  fliades  of  the  complexion  ; 
and  the  Beauty  of  figure,  arifing  from  the  lines  which  form 
the  difi'erent  features  of  the  face.  But  the  chief  Beauty  of 
the  countenance  depends  upon  a  myllerious  expreflibn,  which 
it  conveys  of  the  qualities  of  the  mind  ;  of  good  fenfe,  or 
good  humour-,  of  fprightlinefs,  candour, benevolence,  fenfibility, 
or  other  amiable  difpofitions.  |  How  it  comes  to  pafs,  that  a 
certain  conformation  of  features  is  connedled  in  our  idea  with 
certain  moral  qualities ;  whether  we  are  taught  by  inftindl,  or 
by  experience,  to  form  this  connexion,  and  to  read  the  mind 
in  the  countenance  •,  belongs  not  to  us  now  to  inquire,  nor  is 
indeed  eafy  to  refolve.  The  fa£l  is  certain,  and  acknowledged, 
that  what  gives  the  human  countenance  its  mod  diftinguifhing 
Beauty,  is  what  is  called  its  expreihon  ;  or  an  iniage,  which  it 
is  conceived  to  Ihcwof  internal  moral  difpofitions. 

This  leads  us  to  obferve,  that  there  are  certain  qualities  of 
the  mind  which,  whether  exprefled  in  the  countenance,  or  by 
words,  or  by  actions,  always  raife  in  us  a  feeling  fimilar  to 
that  of  Beauty.  There  are  tM^o  great  clafles  of  moral  qualities ; 
one  is  of  the  high  and  the  great  virtues,  which  require  extra- 
ordinary efibrts,  and  turn  upon  dangers  and  fufferings ;  as 
heroifm,  magnanimity,  contempt  of  pleafures,  and  contempt 
of  death.  Thefe,  as  I  have  obferved  in  a  former  Leflure,  ex- 
cite in  the  fpe£lator  an  emotion  of  Sublimity  and  Grandeur. 
The  other  clafs  is  generally  of  the  focial  virtues,  and  fuch  as 
are  of  a  fofter  and  gentler  kind ;  as  compaflion,  mildnefs, 
,  friendfliip,  and  generofity.  Thcfe  raife  in  the  beholder  a  fen- 
fation of  pleafure,  fo  much  akin  to  that  produced  by  Beautiful 
external  objeds,  that,  though  of  a  more  dignified  nature,  it 
may,  without  impropriety,  be  clafled  under  the  fame  head. 

A  fpecies  of  Beauty,  diftincLl  from  any  I  have  yet  mentioned, 
arifes  from  defign  or  art  ;  or,  in  other  words,  from  the  percep- 
tion of  means  being  adapted  to  au  end  j    or  the  parts  of  any 

thing 


Lect.V.  beauty.  <>ci 


;> 


tiling  being  well  fitted  to  anfwer  the  defign  of  tlic  wliole.  When, 
in  confidering  the  flruclure  of  a  tree  or  a  plant,  we  obferve,  how 
all  the  parts,  the  roots,  the  ft.em,the  bark,  and  the  leaves,  are  fuited 
to  the  growth  and  nutriment  of  tlie  whole  :  much  more  when 
we  furvey  all  the  parts  and  members  of  a  living  animal  ;  or 
when  we  examine  any  of  the  curious  works  of  art  j  fuch  as  a 
clock,  a  fhip,  or  any  nice  machine  ;  the  pleafure  which  we  have 
in  the  furvey,  is  wholly  founded  on  this  fenfe  of  Beauty.  It 
is  altogether  different  from  the  perception  of  Beauty  pr.oduced 
by  colour,  figure,  variety,  or  any  of  the  caufcs  formerly  men- 
tioned. When  I  look  at  a  watch,  for  inflance,  the  cafe  of  it, 
if  finely  engraved,  and  of  curious  workmanfiiip,  ftrikes  me  as 
beautiful  in  the  former  fenfc  ;  bright  colour,  exquifite  polifti, 
figures  finely  raifed  and  turned.  But  when  I  examine  the  con- 
ftru£lion  of  the  fpring  and  the  wheels,  and  praife  tlie  Beauty  of 
the  internal  macliinery  j  my  pleafure  then  arifes  wholly  from 
the  view  of  that  admirable  art,  with  which  fo  many  various  and 
complicated  parts  are  made  to  unite  for  one  purpofe.  ' 

This  fenfe  of  Beauty,  in  fitnefs  and  defign,  has  an  extenfive 
influence  over  many  of  our  ideas.  It  is  the  foundation  of  the 
Beauty  which  we  difcover  in  the  proportion  of  doors,  windows, 
arches,  pillars,  and  all  the  orders  of  architecSlure.  Let  the  or- 
naments of  a  building  be  ever  fo  fine  and  elegant  in  tliemfclves, 
yet  if  they  interfere  with  this  fenfc  of  fitnefs  and  defign,  they 
lofe  their  Beauty,  and  hurt  the  eye,  like  difagreeable  obje£ls. 
Twifted  columns,  for  inllancc,  arc  undoubtedly  ornamental  ; 
but  as  they  have  an  appearance  of  weaknefs,  they  always  dif- 
pleafe  when  they  ai^e  made  ufe  of  to  fupport  any  part  of  a  build- 
ing that  is  mafiy,  and  that  feems  to  require  a  more  fubilan- 
tial  prop.  '  We  cannot  look  upon  any  work  whatever,  without 
being  led,  by  a  natural  afibciation  of  ideas,  to  think  of  its  end 
and  defign,  and  of  courfc  to  examine  the  propriety  of  its  parts, 
in  relation  to  this  defign  and  etui.  When  their  propriety  is 
clearly  difcerned,  the  work  fccms  always  to  have  forae  Beauty  ; 
but  when  there  is  a  total  want  of  propriety,  it  never  fails  of  ap- 
pearing deformed.  Our  fenfe  of  fitnefs  and  defign,  therefore, 
is  fo  powerful,  and  holds  fo  high  a  rank  among  our  perceptions, 
as  to  regulate,  in  a  great  mcafurc,  our  other  ideas  of  Beauty  : 
An  obfervation  which  I  the  rather  make,  as  it  is  of  the  utmoft 
importance,  that  all  who  ftudy  compofitioa  flioukl  carefully 

attend 


64  BEAUTY'.  Lect.V. 

attend  to  it.  For,  in  an  epic  poem,  a  hiftory,  an  oration,  or 
any  work  of  genius,  we  always  require,  as  we  do  in  other  works, 
a  fitnefs,  or  adjuftment  of  means,  to  the  end  which  the  author 
is  fuppofed  to  have  in  view.  Let  his  defcriptions  be  ever  fo 
rich,  or  his  figures  ever  fo  elegant,  yet,  if  they  are  out  of  place, 
if  they  are  not  proper  parts  of  that  whole,  if  they  fuit  not  the 
main  defign,  they  lofe  all  their  Beauty  ;  nay,  from  Beauties 
they  are  converted  into  Deformities.  Such  power  has  our 
fenfe  of  fitnefs  and  congruity,  to  produce  a  total  transfor- 
mation of  an  objcft  whofe  appearance  otherwife  would  have 
been  Beautiful. 

After  having  mentioned  fo  many  various  fpecies  of  Beauty, 
it  now  only  remains  to  take  notice  of  Beauty  as  it  is  applied  to 
writing  or  difcourfe  ;  a  term  commonly  ufed  in  a  fenfe  alto- 
gether loofe  and  undetermined.  ?  For  it  Is  applied  to  all  that 
pleafes,  either  in  flyle  or  in  fentiment,  from  whatever  principle 
that  pleafure  flows  ;  and  a  Beautiful  poem  or  oration  means, 
in  common  language,  no  other  than  a  good  one,  or  one  well 
compofed.  In  this  fenfe,  it  is  plain,  the  word  is  altogether  in- 
definite, and  points  at  no  particular  fpecies  or  kind  of  Beauty. 
There  is,  however,  another  fenfe,  fomewhat  more  definite,  in 
which  Beauty  of  writing  chara£lerifes  a  particular  manner  ; 
when  it  is  ufed  to  fignify  a  certain  grace  and  amenity  in  the  turn 
either  of  ftyle  or  fentiment,  for  which  fome  authors  have  been 
peculiarly  diltlnguiflied.  In  this  fenfe,  it  denotes  a  manner 
neither  remarkably  Sublime,  nor  vehemently  pafTionate,  nor  un- 
commonly fparkling  !  but  fuch  as  raifes  in  the  reader  an  emo- 
tion of  the  gentle  placid  kind,  fimilar  to  what  is  raifed  by  the 
contemplation  of  Beautiful  objetiiiVs  in  nature  ;  which  neither  lifts 
the  min(Jj(irery  high,  nor  agitates  It  very  much,  but  difFufes  over 
the  imafgination  an  agreeable  and  pleafmg  ferenity.  Mr.  Ad- 
difotvis  a  writer  altogether  of  this  charadler  ;  and  is  one  of  the 
moft  proper  and  precife  examples  that  can  be  given  of  it.  Fen- 
elon,  the  author  of  the  Adventures  of  Telemachus,  may  be 
given  as  another  example.  Virgil  too,  though  very  capable 
of  rifing  on  occafions  into  the  Sublime,  yet,  in  his  general 
manner,  is  diftinguiflied  by  the  character  of  Beauty  and  Grace 
rather  than  of  Sublimity.  Among  orators,  Cicero  has  more  of 
the  Beautiful  than  DemoHrhenes,  whofc  genius  led  him  wholly 


towards  vehemence  and  ftrength. 


This 


Lect.V.  pleasures  OF  TASTE.  65 

This  much  it  is  fufficient  to  have  faid  upon  the  fubjedl  of 
Beauty.  We  have  traced  it  through  a  variety  of  forms  ;  as  next 
to  Subh'mity,  it  is  the  moft  copious  fource  of  the  Pleafures  of 
Tafte  -,  and  as  the  confideration  of  the  different  appearances, 
and  principles  of  Beauty,  tends  to  the  improvement  of  Tafte  in 
many  fubje£ts. 

But  it  is  not  only  by  appearing  under  the  forms  of  Sublime  or. 
Beautiful,  that  objc(!!ls  delight  the  imagination.  From  feveral 
other  principles  alfo,  they  derive  their  power  of  giving  it 
pleafure. 

Novelty,  for  inftance,  lias,  been  mentioned  by  Mr.  Addifon, 
and  by  every  writer  on  this  fubje£l.  An  objeQ  which  has  no 
merit  to  recommend  it,  except  its  being  uncommon  or  new,  by 
means  of  this  quality  alone,  produces  in  the  mind  a  vivid  and 
an  agreeable  emotion.  Hence  that  paflion  of  curiofity,  which 
prevails  fo  generally  among  mankind.  Objects  and  ideas  which 
have  been  long  familiar,  make  too  faint  an  impreffion  to  give 
an  agreeable  exerclfe  to  our  faculties.  New  and  ftrange  objedts 
roufe  the  mind  from  its  dormant  ftate,  by  giving  it  a  quick  and 
pleafing  Impulfe.  Hence,  In  a  great  meafure,  the  entertain- 
ment afforded  us  by  fi6lion  and  romance.  The  emotion  raif- 
ed  by  Novelty  Is  of  a  more  lively  and  pungent  nature, 
than  tlrat  produced  by  Beauty  ;  but  much  fliorter  in  its 
continuance.  For  if  the  objec!!!:  have  in  itfeif  no  charms 
to  hold  our  attention,  the  fhining  glofs  thrown  upon  it  by 
Novelty    foon  wears  ofF. 

Befides  Novelty,  Imitation  Is  another  fource  of  Pleafure  to 
Tafte.  This  gives  rife  to  what  Mr.  Addifon  terms,  the  Sec- 
ondary Pleafures  of  imagination  ;  which  form,  doubtlefs,  a  very 
extenfive  clafs.  For  all  Imitation  affords  fome  pleafure  ;  not 
enly  the  Imitation  of  beautiful  or  great  obje£ls,  by  recalling 
the  original  ideas  of  Beauty  or  Grandeur  which  fuch  obje£ls 
themfelves  exhibited  ;  but  even  objects  which  have  neither 
Beauty  nor  Grandeur,  nay,  fome  which  are  terrible  or  defornj- 
cd,  pleafe  us  In  a  fecondary  or  reprefented  viev/. 

The  Pleafures  of  Melody  and  Harmony  belong  alfo  to  Tafte. 
There  Is  no  agreeable  fenfatlcn  we  receive  either  from  Beauty 
or  Sublimity,  but  what  is  capable  of  being  heightened  by  the 
K  power 


66  IMITATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.     Lect.V. 

power  of  muGcal  found.  Whence  the  delight  of  poetical  num- 
bers ;  and  even  of  the  more  concealed  and  loofer  meafures  of 
profe.  Wit,  Humour,  and  Ridicule  likewife  open  a  variety 
of  Pleafures  to  Talle,  quite  diftin£l  from  any  that  we  have  yet 
confidercd. 

At  prefent  it  is  not  neceflary  to  purfue  any  farther  the  fub- 
je£t  of  the  Pleafures  of  Tade.  I  have  opened  fome  of  the 
general  principles  ;  it  is  time  now  to  make  the  application  to 
our  chief  fubje^l.  If  the  qucftion  be  put,  To  what  clafs  of 
thofe  Pleafures  of  Tafte  which  I  have  enumerated,  that  Pleaf- 
ure  is  to  be  referred,  which  we  receive  from  poetry,  eloquence, 
or  fine  writing  ?  My  anfwer  is,  Not  to  any  one,  but  to  them 
all.  This  fmgular  advantage,  writing  and  difcourfe  poflefs, 
that  they  encompafs  fo  large  and  rich  a  field  on  all  fides,  and 
have  power  to  exhibit,  in  great  perfe6lion,  not  a  fingle  fet  o£ 
obje£ls  only,  but  almoft  the  whole  of  thofe  which  give  Pleafure 
to  Tafte  and  Imagination;  whether. that  Pleafure  arife  from 
Sublimity,  from  Beauty  in  its  different  forms,  from  Defign,  and 
Art,  from  Moral  Sentiment,  from  Novelty,  from  Harmony, 
from  Wit,  Humour  and  Ridicule.  To  whichfoever  of  thefe 
the  peculiar  bent  of  a  perfon's  Taile  lies,  from  fome  writer  or 
other,  he  has  it  always  in  his  power  to  receive  the  gratification 
of  it. 

Now  this  high  pcvi'er  which  eloquence  and  poetry  poflefs, 
of  fupplying  Tafte  and  Imagination  with  fuch  a  wide  circle 
of  Pleafures,  they  derive  altogether  from  their  having  a  greater 
capacity  of  Imitation  and  Defcription  than  is  poftefled  by  any 
other  art.  Of  all  the  means  which  human  ingenuity  has  con- 
trived for  recalling  the  images  of  real  obje6bs,  and  awakening, 
by  reprefcntation,  fimilar  emotions  to  thofe  which  are  raifed 
by  the  original,  none  is  fo  full  and  extenfive  as  that  which  is 
executed  by  words  and  writing.  Through  the  aftiftance  of  this 
happy  invention,  there  is  nothing,  either  in  the  natural  or 
moral  world,  but  what  can  be  reprefented  and  fet  before 
the  mind,  in  colours  very  ftrong  and  lively.  Hence  it  is 
ufual  among  critical  writers,  to  fp'eak  of  Difcourfe  as  the  chief 
of  all  the  imitative  or  mimetic  arts  ;  they  compare  it  with 
painting  and  with  fculpture,  and  in  anany  refpe<^s  prefer  it 
jwftly  before  them. 

This 


Lect.  V.     IMITATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.  67 

This  ftyle  was  firfl:  introduced  by  Ariftotle  in  his  Poetics ; 
and  fincc  his  time,  has  acquired  a  general  currency  among 
modern  authors.  But  as  it  is  of  confequ'ence  to  introduce 
as  much  precifion  as  poflible  into  critical  language,  I  muft 
obferve,  that  this  manner  of  fpeaking  is  not  accurate.  Nei- 
ther difcourfe  in  general,  nor  poetry  in  particular,  can  be  call- 
ed altogether  imitative  arts.  We  muft  diftinguifli  betwixt 
Imitation  and  Defcription,  which  are  ideas  that  fliould  not 
be  confounded.  Imitation  is  performed  by  means  of  fomewhat 
that  has  a  natural  likenefs  and  refemblance  to  the  thing  imitat- 
ed, and  of  confequence  is  underftood  by  all  :  fuch  are  ftatues 
and  pictures.  Defcription,  again,  is  the  raifing  in  the  mind 
the  conception  of  an  object  by  means  of  fome  arbitrary  or 
inftituted  fymbols,  underftood  only  by  thofe  who  agree  in  the 
inftitution  of  them  ;  fuch  are  words  and  writing.  Words  have 
no  natural  refemblance  to  the  ideas  or  obje£ls  which  they  arc 
employed  to  fignify  j  but  a  ftatue  or  a  picture  has  a  nat- 
ural likenefs  to  the  original.  And  therefore  Imitation  and 
Defcription  differ  confiderably  in  their  nature  from  each 
other. 

As  far,  indeed,  as  a  poet  or  a  hiilorian  introduces  into  his 
work  perfons  a£lually  fpeaking ;  and  by  the  words  which  he 
puts  into  their  mouths,  reprefents  the  difcourfe  which  they 
night  be  fuppofed  to  hold ;  fo  far  his  art  may  more  accurate- 
ly be  called  Imitative  :  and  this  is  the  cafe  in  all  dramatic  Gom- 
pofition.  But  in  Narrative  or  Dcfcriptive  works,  it  can  with 
no  propriety  be  called  fo.  Who,  for  inftance,  would  call  Vir- 
gil's Defcription  of  a  tempeft,  in  the  firft  iEneid,  an  Imitation 
of  a  ftorm  ?  If  we  heard  of  the  Imitation  of  a  battle,  we  might 
naturally  think  of  fome  mock  fight,  or  reprefentation  of  a  bat- 
tle on  the  ftage,  but  would  never  apprehend,  that  it  meant  on« 
of  Homer's  Defcriptions  in  the  Iliad.  I  admit,  at  the  fame 
time,  that  Imitation  and  Defcription  agree  in  their  principal  ef- 
fect, of  recalling  by  external  figns,  the  ideas  of  things  which 
we  do  not  fee.  But  though  in  this  they  coincide,  yet  it 
fliould  not  be  forgotten,  that  the  terms  themfelves  are  not 
(ynonimpus  j    that  they  import  different  means  of  efFe£ling 

the 


69  IMITATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.     Lect-V. 

the  fame  end  j    and  of  courfe   make  different  imprcfiions  on 
the'  n^.ind.* 

Whether  we  confider  Poetry  in  particular,  and  Difcourfe  in 
general,  as  Imitative  or  Defcriptive  ;  it  is  evident,  that  their 
whole  power,  in  recalling  the  impreflions  of  real  objeQs  is  de- 
rived from  the  fignificancy  of  words.  As  their  excellency 
flows  altogether  from  this  fource,  we  muft,  in  order  to  make 
way  for  further  inquiries,  begin  at  this  fountain  head.  I  lliall, 
therefore,  in  the  nextLe6lure,  enter  upon  the  confiderationof 
Language  :  of  the  origin,  the  progrefs,  and  conftrudlion  of 
which,  I  purpofe  to  treat  at  fome  length. 

LECTURE 

•  Though,  in  the  execution  of  particular  parts,  Poetry  is  certainly  Dct 
fcriptive  rather  than  Imitative,  yet  there  is  a  qualified  fcnfc  in  which  Poetry, 
in  the  general,  may  he  termed  an  Imitative  art.  The  fubjecfl  of  the  poet  (as 
Dr.  Gerard  has  fliown  in  the  Appendix  to  his  Effav  on  laltc)  is  intended  to 
be  an  Imitation,  not  of  tilings  ically  exifting,  but  of  the  courfe  of  nature; 
that  is,  a  feigned  reprefcntatiou  of  fuch  events,  or  fuch  fcenes,  as  though  they 
never  had  a  being,  yet  might  have  ixifttd;  and  which,  therefore,  by  their 
probability,  bear  a  refembiance  to  nature.  It  was  probably,  in  this  fcnle,  that 
Ariftotle  termed  Poetry  a  mimetic  art.  How  far  cither  the  Imitation  or  the 
Defcription  which  Poetry  employs,  is  fuperior  to  the  imitative  powers  of 
Painting  and  Mufic,  is  well  lliowji  by  Mr.  Harris,  in  his  Treatife  on  Mulic, 
Painting,  and  Poetry.  The  chief  advantage  which  Poetry,  or  Difcourfe  in 
general,  enjoys  is,  that  vv'hcreas,  by  the  nature  of  hi.s  art,  the  painter  is  con- 
tined  to  the  rcprefentation  of  a  finglc  moment,  writing  and  difcourfe  can  trace 
a  tranfadlion  through  its  whole  progrefs,  'I'hst  moment,  indeed,  which  the 
painter  pitches  upon  for  the  fubjcdt  of  his  pidlurc,  he  may  be  faid  to  exhibit 
■with  more  advantage  than  the  poet  or  tlic  orator  ;  inafmuch  as  he  fcts  before 
■ys,  in  one  view,  all  the  minute  concurrent  circumflanccs  of  the  event  wliich 
happen  in  one  individual  point  of  rime,  as  they  appear  in  nature  :  while  Dif- 
courfe is  obliged  to  exhibit  them  in  fucceffion,  and  by  means  of  a  detail  which 
is  in  danger  of  becoming  tedious,  in  order  to  be  clear  ;  or  if  not  tedious,  is  ii% 
danger  of  being  obfcure.  But  to  that  point  of  time  which  he  has  chofen,  the 
painter  being  entirely  confined,  he  cannot  exhibit  various  ftages  of  the  fame 
adlion  or  event  ;  and  he  is  fubjcd:  to  this  farther  dtfcA,  that  he  can  only  ex- 
hibit objedls  as  they  appear  to  the  eye,  and  can  very  imperfe<5lly  delineate 
characftcrs  and  feutimcnts,  which  arc  the  noblefl  fubjcdts  of  Imitation  or  De- 
fciiption.  The  power  of  reprefenting  thefe  with  full  advantage,  gives  a  high 
fiiperiority  to  Difcourfe  and  Writing  above  all  other  imitative  arts. 


^«  «Jif*«i  Jl  H«JJ.1«"J 


LECTURE         VI. 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE. 

JTIAVING  finifiied  my  obfervations  on  the  Pleafurcs 
of  Tafle,  -which  were  meant  to  be  introdudlory  to  the  principal 
fubje6l  of  thefc  Le£lures,  I  now  begin  to  treat  of  Language  ; 
which  vz  the  foundation  of  the  whole  power  of  eloquence. 
This  will  lead  to  a  confiderable  difcuflion  ;  and  there  are  few 
fubje£ls  belonging  to  polite  literature,  which  more  merit  fuch 
a  difcuflion.  I  fliall  firlt  give  a  Hiftory  of  the  Rife  and  Progrefs 
of  Language  in  feveral  particulars,  from  its  early  to  its  more 
advanced  periods  ;  which  Ihall  be  followed  by  a  fimilar  Hifto- 
ry of  the  Rife  and  Progrefs  of  Writing.  I  fliall  next  give 
fome  account  of  the  Conftrudlion  of  Language,  or  the  Princi- 
ples of  Univevfal  Grammar  ;  and  fhall,  laftly,  apply  thefe  ob- 
fervations more  particularly  to  the  Englilh  Tongue.* 

Language,  in  general,  fignifies  the  e:tprefrion  of  our  idensby 
certain  articulate  founds,  which  are  ufed  as  the  figns  of  thofc 
ideas.  By  articulate  founds,  are  meant  thofe  modulations  of 
fimple  voice  or  of  found  emitted  from  the  thorax,  which  are 
formed  by  means  of  the  mouth  and  its  feveral  organs,  the  teeth, 
the  tongue,  the  lips,  and  the  palate.  How  far  there  is  any 
natural  connexion  between  the  ideas  of  the  mind  and  the  founds 
emitted,  will  appear  from  what  I  am  afterwards  to  ofi'er.  '  But 
as  the  natural  connexion  can,  upon  any  fyftem,  atl'cifl  only  a 

fmall 

•  See  Dr.  Adam  Smith's  DifTcrtation  on  the  Formation  of  Lanruagcs. — Trea- 
tife  of  the  Origin  and  Progrtls  of  Lanj^uap^e,  in  3  vols. — Harris's  H<rrmcs,  or  a. 
Pliilofophical  Inquiry  concerning  Language  aod  Univcrfal  Grammar. —  Eflai 
lur  rOriginc  dts  Connoilfances  Humaincs,  par  J'Ahlic  Condillac — Principe* 
de  Grammaire,  par  Marf<iis. — Grninniairc  Gcneralc  &  Raifonnec. — Traiie  dc  la 
Formation  Meclianique-  desLangucs,  par  le  Prefident  de  Broflcs. — Difcours  fur 
riiiegalite  parnii  Its  Hummcs,  par  RoufTcau — Grammaire  Generale,  par 
lieauzce. — Principts  dc  la  1  radiidtion,  par  Batteiix. — Warburton's  Divine  Le- 
gation of  Mofcs,  vol.  iii. — Sandtii  Minerva,  cum  iiotis  Perizonii — Lcs  Vrais 
piincipcs  dc  laLanguc  Fran^oifc,  par  I'Abbc  Girard, 


70  RISE   AND  PROGRESS         LecI-.V!. 

fmall  part  of  the  fabric  of  Language  ;  the  connexion  between 
V'ords  and  ideas  may,  in  general,  be  confidered  as  arbitrary  and 
conventional,  owing  to  the  agreement  of  men  among  them- 
felvcs  j  the  clear  proof  of  which  is,  that  different  nations  have 
different  Languages,  or  a  different  fet  of  articulate  founds, 
which  they  have  chofen  for  communlcaflng  their  ideas. 

This  artificial  method  of  communicating  thought,  we  now 
behold  carried  to  the  higheft  perfe£lion.  Language  iS  become 
a  vehicle  by  which  the  moft  delicate  and  refined  emotions  of 
one  mind  can  be  tranfmitted,  or,  if  we  may  fo  fpeak,  transfufed 
into  another.  Not  only  are  names  given  to  all  objects  around 
us,  by  which  means  an  eafy  and  fpecdy  intercourfe  is  carried  on 
for  providing  the  necefiaries  of  life,  but  all  the  relations  and 
difFirences  among  thefeobjedls  are  minutely  marked,  thcinvifible 
fentiments  of  the  mind  are  defcribed,  the  moft  abiliradl:  notions 
and  conceptions'are  rendered  intelligible  ;  and  all  the  ideas 
which  fcience  can  difcover,  or  imagination  create,  are  known 
by  their  proper  names.  Nay,  Language  has  been  carried  fo 
far,  as  to  be  made  an  inftrumcnt  of  the  moft  refined  luxury. 
Not  refting  in  mere  perfpicuity,  we  require  ornament  alfo  ; 
not  fatisfied  with  having  the  conceptions  of  others  made  known 
to  us,  we  make  a  farther  demand,  to  have  them  fo  decked  and 
adorned  as  to  entertain  our  fancy  ;  and  this  demand,  it  is  found 
very  pofiible  to  gratify.  In  this  ftate,  we  now  find  Language. 
In  this  ftate,  it  has  been  found  among  many  nations  for  fome 
thoufand  years.  The  obje6l  is  become  familiar  ;  and,  like  the 
expanfe  of  the  firmament,  and,  other  great  objc6ls,  which  we 
are  accuftomed  to  behold,  we  behold  It  without  wonder. 

But  carry  your  thoughts  back  to  the  firft  dawn  of  Language 
among  men.  Refiecl  upon  the  feeble  beginnings  from  which 
it  muft  have  arifen,  and  upon  the  many  and  great  obftacles 
which  it  muft  have  encountered  in  its  progrefs  ;  and  you  will 
iind  reafon  for  the  higheft  aftoniflmient,  on  viewing  the  height 
which  it  has  now  attained.  We  admire  feveral  of  the  inven- 
tions of  art ;  we  plume  ourfelves  on  fome  difcoveries  which 
have  been  made  in  latter  ages,  ferving  to  advance  knowledge, 
and  to  render  life  comfortable  ;  we  fpeak  of  them  as  the  boaft 
of  human  reafon.  But  certainly  no  invention  is  entitled  to 
any  fuch  degree  of  admiration  as  that  of  Language ;  which, 

too, 


Lect.VI.  of    language.  7x 

too,  muft  have  been  the  producft  of  the  firft  and  rudeft  ages,  if 
indeed  it  can  be  confidered  as  a  human  invention  at  all. 

Think  of  the  circumftances  of  mankind  when  Languages 
began  to  be  formed.  They  were  a  wandering  fcattered  race  ; 
no  fociety  among  them  except  fiimiHes  ;  and  the  family  fociety 
too  very  imperfedt,  as  their  metliod  of  living  by  hunting  or 
paflurage  mull  have  feparated  them  frequently  from  one  anoth- 
er. In  this  (ituation,  when  fo  much  divided,  and  their  inter- 
courfe  fo  rare,  How  could  any  one  fet  of  founds,  or  words,  be 
generally  agreed  on  as  the  figns  of  their  ideas  ?  Suppofing  that 
a  few,  whom  chance  or  necefTity  threw  together  agreed  by 
fome  means  upon  certain  figns,  yet  by  what  authority  could 
thefe  be  propagated  among  other  tribes  or  families,  fo  as  to 
fpread  and  grow  up  into  a  Language  ?  One  would  think,  that 
in  order  to  any  Language  fixing  and  extending  itfelf,  men  mufi: 
have  been  previoufly  gathered  together  in  confiderable  num- 
bers :  fociety  muft  have  been  already  far  advanced  5  and  yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  there  feems  to  have  been  an  abfolute  nccef- 
Cty  for  Speech,  previous  to  the  formation  of  Society.  For,  by 
what  bond  could  any  multitude  of  men  be  kept  together,  or 
be  made  to  join  in  the  profecution  of  any  common  intereft, 
until  once,  by  the  intervention  of  Speech,  they  could  commu- 
nicate their  wants  and  intentions  to  each  other  ?  So  that,  cither 
how  Society  could  form  itfelf,  previoufly  to  Language  ;  or 
how  words  could  rife  into  a  Language,  previoufly  to  Society 
formed,  feem  to  be  points  attended  with  equal  difficulty.  And 
when  we  confider  farther,  that  curious  analogy  which  prevails 
in  the  conftru£lion  of  almoft  all  Languages,  and  that  deep  and 
fubtile  logic  on  v/hich  they  are  founded,  difficulties  increafe 
fo  much  upon  us,  on  all  hands,  tliat  there  feems  to  be  no  fmall 
reafon  for  referring  the  firft  origin  of  all  Language  to  divine 
teaching  or  Infplration. 

But  fuppofing  Language  to  have  a  Divine  original,  we  can- 
not, however,  fuppofe,  that  a  perfe£l  fyftem  of  it  was  all  at 
once  given  to  man.  It  is  much  more  natural  to  think,  that 
God  taught  our  firft  parents  only  fuch  Language  as  fuited  their 
prefent  occafions  ;  leaving  them,  as  he  did  in  other  things,  to 
enlarge  and  improve  It  as  their  future  neceffities  fliould  require. 
Confcquently,  thofc  firft  rudiments  of  Speech  muft  have  been 

poor 


72  RrSE   AND    PROGRESS         Lect.VL 

poor  and  narrow;  and  we  are  at  full  liberty  to  inquire  in 
what  manner,  and  by  what  fteps,  Language  advanced  to  the 
ftate  in  which  we  now  find  it.  The  hiftory  which  I  am  to  give 
of  this  progrefs,  will  fuggeft  feveral  things,  both  curious  in 
themfelves,  and  ufeful  in  our  future  difquifitions. 

If  we  fhould  fuppofe  a  period  before  any  words  were  invent- 
ed or  known,  it  is  clear,  that  men  could  have  no  other  method 
of  communicating  to  others  what  they  felt,  than  by  the  cries 
of  paflion,  accompanied  with  fuch  motions  and  geflures  as  were 
farther  exprelFive  of  pafhon.  For  thefe  are  the  only  figns  which 
nature  teaches  all  men,  and  which  are  underftood  by  all.  One 
who  fc\w  another  going  into  fome  place  where  he  himfelf  had 
been  frightened,  or  cxpofed  to  danger,  and  who  fought  to  warn 
his  neighbour  of  the  danger,  could  contrive  no  other  way  of 
doiRg  fo,  tlian  by  uttering  thofe  cries,  and  making  thofe  gcf- 
tures,  which  are  the  figns  of  fear :  juft  as  two  men,  at  this  day, 
would  endeavour  to  make  themfelves  be  underflood  by  each 
other,  vrho  fliould  be  thrown  together  on  a  defolate  ifland,  ig- 
norant of  one  another's  Language.  Thofe  exclamations,  there- 
fore, which  by  grammarians  are  called  Interjections,  uttered  In 
a  ilrong  and  paffionate  manner,  were,  beyond  doubt,  the  firft 
elements  or  beginnings  of  Speech,    i 

When  more  enlarged  communication  became  neceflary,  and 
names  began  to  be  afligned  to  obje£ls,  in  what  manner  can  we 
fuppofe  men  to  have  proceeded  in  this  afiignation  of  names,  or 
invention  of  words .''  Undoubtedly,  by  imitating,  as  much  as 
they  could,  the  nature  of  the  objedl:  which  they  named,  by  the 
found  of  the  name  which  they  gave  to  it.  As  a  painter  who 
would  reprefent  grafs,  muft  employ  green  colour  -,  fo,  in  the 
beginnings  of  Language,  one  giving  a  name  to  any  thing  harfh 
and  boifterous,  would  of  courfe  employ  a  harfli  or  boiflerous 
found.  He  could  not  do  otherwife,  if  he  meant  to  excite  in 
the  hearer  the  idea  of  that  thing  which  he  fought  to  name. 
To  fuppofe  words  invented,  or  names  given,  to  things,  in  a 
manner  purely  arbitrary,  without  any  ground  or  rcafon,  is  to 
fuppofe  an  effeft  without  a  caufe.  There  mufl  have  always 
been  fome  motive  which  led  to  the  afTignation  of  one  name 
rather  than  another  ;  and  we  can  conceive  no  motive  wliich 
would  more  univerfally  operate  upon  men  in  their  firll  efforts 

towards 


Lect.VL  of    language.  73 

towards  Language,  than  a  defire  to  paint  by  Speech,  theobje£l$ 
wliich  they  named,  in  a  manner  more  or  lefs  complete,  accord- 
ing as  the  vocal  organs  had  it  in  their  power  to  cfFedl  this  imi-. 
tation. 
f  ■    Wherever  obje<fl3  were  to  be  named,  in  which  found,  noife, 
or  motion  were  concerned,  the  imitation  by  words  was  abund- 
antly obvious.     Nothing  was  more  natural,  than   to  imitate, 
by  the  found  of  the  voice,  the  quality  of  the  found  or  noife 
which  any  external  objetl^l   made  ;  and  to  form  its  name  ac- 
cordingly.    Thus,    in  all  Languages,   we  find  a  multitude  of 
words   that  are  evidently  conftrufted  upon  this  principle.     A 
certain  bird  is  termed  the  Cuckoo,   from  the  found  which  it 
emits.      When  one  fort  of  wind  is  faid  to  ivhljlle^  and  another 
to  roar ,-  when  a  ferpent  is  faid  to  hifs  ;  a  fly  to  buzy  and  falling 
timber  to  crajlj  ;  when  a  ftream  is  faid  tojlowy  and  hail  to  rat- 
tle ;  the  analogy  betv/een  the  word  and  the  thing  figuified  is 
plainly  difcernible.  \ 

In  the  names  of  cbje£ls  which  addrefs  the  fight  only,  wliere 
neither  noife  nor  motion  are  concerned,  and  itill  more  in  the 
terms  appropriated  to  moral  ideas,  this  analogy  appears  to  fail. 
Many  learned  men,  however,  have  been  of  opinion,  that  though, 
in  fuch  cafes,  it  becomes  more  obfcure,  yet  it  is  not  altogether 
loll ;  but  that  throughout  tjie  radical  words  of  ail  Languages, 
there  may  be  traced  fome  degree  of  correfpondence  with  the  ob- 
je6l  fignificd.  With  regard  to  moral  and  inteUe£lual  ideas,  they 
remark,  that,  ia  every  Lang.uage,  the  terms  fignificant  of  them, 
are  derived  from  the  names  of  fenfible  obje£ls  to  which  they 
are  conceived  to  be  analogous  ;  and  with  regard  to  fenfible  ob- 
jects pertaining  merely  to  fight,  they  remark,  that  their  molt 
diftinguilhing  qualities  have  certain  radical  founds  appropriated 
to  the  cxprelfion  of  them,  in  a  great  variety  of  Languages. 
Stability,  for  inilance,  fluidity,  hollownefs,  fmoothncfs,  gentle- 
ncfs,  violence,  &c.  they  imagine  to  be  painted  by  the  found  o£ 
certain  l>nters  or  fyllables,  v/hich  have  fome  relation  to  thofe 
different  dates  of  vifible  obje£ls,  on  account  of  an  obfcure  re- 
semblance which  the  organs  of  voice  are  capable  of  afluming 
tJ  fuch  external  qualities.  By  tliis  natural  mechanifm,  they 
L  imagine 


74  RISE   AND    PROGRESS         Lect.VI. 

imagine  all  Languages  to  have  been  at  firfl  conflrucled,  and 
the  roots  of  their  capital  words  formed.* 

As  far  as  this  fyilem  is  founded  in  truth,  Language  appears 
to  be  not  altogether  arbitrary  in  its  origin.  Among  the  ancient 
Stoic  and  Platonic  Philofophers,  it  was  a  queflion  much  agitat- 
ed, *'  Utrum  nomina  rerum  fint  natura,  an  impofitione  ?"  fvTtt 
filial  -^  by  which  they  meant.  Whether  words  were  merely  con^ 
ventional  fymbols  ;  of  the  rife  of  which  no  account  could  be 
given,  except  the  pleafure  of  the  firfl:  inventors  of  Ijanguage  ? 
or.  Whether  tliere  was  fome  principle  in  nature  that  led  to  the; 
affignation  of  particular  names  to  particular  objects  ;  and  thofe 
of  the  Platonic  fchool  favoured  the  latter  opinion  ?f 

This 

*  The  Author,  who  lias  carried  his  fpecu'ations  on  tl\is  fubjetfl;  the  farthefi:, 
is  the  Prtfidcnt  Des  Brofies,  in  his"Traitc  de  la  Forni;)tion  Mechaniqiic  deft 
•'Langues."  Some  of  tlie  radical  letters  or  fyllablcs  whicii  he  fiippofes  to  car- 
ry this  exprefTive  power  in  niofl  known  Languajje*  arc,  St,  to  figiiify  ftabilitjr 
or  reft;  Fl,  to  denote  fl'jcncy;  CI,  a  gentle  defcent ;  R,  what  reJatcs  to  rapid 
motion;  C,  to  cavity  or  hollownels,  &.c.  A  century  btlorehis  time,  Dr.  Wallis, 
in  his  Grammar  of  che  Englifli  Language,  had  taken  notice  of  tlitfe  fignificant 
roots,  and  reprefented  it  as  a  peculiar  excellency  uf  our  Tongue,  that,  beyond 
all  others,  it  exprelTcd  the  nature  of  the  objeiSts  which  it  names,  by  employing 
founds  fliarper,  fofter,  wcf.ker,  ftrongcr,  more  obfcure,  or  more  ftridulous,  ac- 
cording as  the  idea  which  is  to  be  ruggtfted  requires.  He  gives  various  exam- 
ples. Tims,  words  formed  upon  8t,  always  denote  firnincls  and  ftrength,  analo- 
gous to  theLatin  j^o  ,-  as,  ft'and,  ftay,  ftafF,  Rup,  flout, ffcadv,  ftake,  ftamp,  ftallion, 
ftatelv,  &c.  Words  beginning  with  Str,  intimate  violent  force  andenergy>  anal- 
ogous to  the  Greek  rrfanuui;  as,  .'Irivc,  flrength,  ftrike,  ftripe,  ftrcfs,  flruggle, 
ftride,ftretch,  ftrip,  &c.  Thr,  implies  forcible  motion  ;  as,  throw,  throb,  thrufl, 
through,  threaten,  thraldom.  M'r,  obloquy  or  diftortijin  ;  as,  wry,  wrcfl, 
•wreath,  wrcAle,  wring,  wrong,  wrangle,  wrath,  wrack,  &c.  Sw,  filcnt  agita- 
tion, or  lateral  motion  ;  as,  fway,  fwiiig,  fvverve,  fweep,  fwim.  SI,  a  gentle  fal! 
or  lefs  obfervablc  motion  ;  as,  Ihde,  flip,  fly,  flit,  (low,  llack,  fling.  Sp,  difllpa- 
tion  or  cxpanhon  ;  as,  fpread,l'proiit,i'[»rinkIe,  fplit,  fpill,fpring.  Terminations 
in  afh,  indicate  Ibmcthing  ae'ling  nimbly  and  fliarply  ;  as,  crafli,  gafli,  rafli, 
flafli,  laflj,  flafli.  Terminations  in  ufh,  foraetliing  atSting  more  obtufdy  and 
dully  ;  as,  crufii,  bruHi,  bufli,  gafli,  bluHi.  TJic  learned  Author  produces  a 
great  many  more  examples  of  tl;e  fame  kind,  wliich  fccm  to  leave  no  doubt, 
that  the  analogies  of  found  have  hnd  fome  influence  on  liie  formation  of  words. 
/Ct  tlie  fame  time,  in  all  fpccul;itions  of  this  kind,  there  is  lb  much  room  for 
fancy  to  operate,  that  they  ought  to  be  adopted  with  much  caution  in  forming 
'any  general  theory. 

f  Vid.  Plat,  in  Cratylo.  "  Nomina.  verb:>que  non  pofita  fortuito,  fed  qua- 
"  dam  vi  &  ratioxie  naturx  facfta  elTe,  P.  Nigidius  in  Grammaticis  Commen- 
"  tariis  docet ;  rem  lane  in  pliilofophias  diflertationibus  celcbrem.  In  earn 
«•  rem  multa  argumenta  dicit,  cur  videri  poffint  veriia  cfic  naturalia,  magi* 
"  quam  arbitraria.  ^'oj,  ine]uit,  cum  dicimus,  motu  quodam  oris  convcniente, 
**  cum  ipfius  verb!  demonftratione  utimur,  &  labias  fcnfim  primores  cmove- 
"  mu8,  ac  fpiritum  atque  animam  porro  verfnm,  &  ad  eos  quibiis  confermo- 
"  cinamnr  intcndimus.  At  contra  cum  dicimus  Nos,  neque  profufo  intento- 
•^  que  fiatu  vocis,  neque  projedlit  luhih  proimiiciamus ;  fed  et  fpiritum  et  labias 

"  qua£i 


Iect.VI.  of   language.  7^ 

This  principle,  however,  of  a  natural  relation  between  words 
and  objecfts,  can  only  be  applied  to  Language  in  its  mod  fim- 
ple  and  primitive  ftate.  Though  in  every  Tongue,  fomc  re- 
mains of  it,  as  I  have  fhcwn  above,  can  be  traced,  it  were  ut- 
terly in  vain  to  fcarch  for  it  throughout  the  whole  conftru£lion 
of  any  modern  Language.  As  the  multitude  of  terms  increafc 
in  every  nation,  and  the  immenfe  field  of  Language  is  filled  up, 
words,  by.  a  thoufand  fanciful  and  irregular  methods  of  derivap- 
tlon  and  compofition,  come  to  deviate  widely  from  the  primitive 
charadler  of  their  roots,  and  to  lofe  all  analogy  or  refemblajicc 
in  found  to  the  things  fignified.  In  this  flate  we  now  find 
Language.  Words,  as  we  now  employ  them,  taken  in  the  gen- 
eral, may  be  confidered  as  fymbols,not  as  imitations;  as  arbitrary, 
or  conftituted,  not  natural  figns  of  ideas.  13ut"  there  can  be  no 
<loubt,  I  think,  that  Language,  the  nearer  we  remount  to  its  rife 
among  men,  will  be  found  to  partake  more  of  a  natural  exprefiion. 
As  it  could  be  originally  formed  on  nothing  but  imitation,  it 
would,  in  its  primitive  (late,  be  more  pi6lurefque  ;  much  more 
barren  indeed,  and  narrow  in  the  circle  of  its  terms,  than  now  ; 
but  fo  far  as  it  went,  miore  expreffive  by  found  of  the  thing 
llgnified.  This,  then,  may  be  afTumed  as  one  character  of  the 
firft  ftate,  or  beginnings,  of  Language,  among  every  favage 
tribe. 

A  fecond  character  of  Language,  in  its  early  ftate,  is  drawn 
from  the  manner  in  which  words  were  at  firft  pronounced,  or 
uttered,  by  men.  Interje£tions,  I  fliowed,  or  paflionate  excla- 
mations, were?  the  firft  elements  of  Speech.  Men  laboured  to 
communicate  their  feelings  to  one  another,  by  thofe  expreffive 
cries  and  geflures  which  nature  taught  them.  After  words, 
or  names  of  objeifts,  began  to  be  invented,  this  mode  of  fpeak- 
ing,  by  natural  figns,  could  not  be  all  at  once  difufcd.  '  For 
Language,  in  its  infancy,  mud  have  been  extremely  barren; 
and  there  certainly  was  a  period  among  all  rude  nations,  when 
converfatlon  was  cairied  on  by  a  very  ^v  words,  intermixed 

with 

"  qiiafi  intra  nofmct  ipfos  corrcemus.  Hoc  fit  iticm  ct  in  eo  quod  c'icinius, 
"  tu,  &  ego,  &  w/7>;,  &  ii/>i.  Nam  ficiiti  cum  adnuimiis  &  abnuinms,  inotjs 
"  qucidam  illo  vel  capitis,  vel  oculornm,  a  natura  ici  qu.im  figiiiiicHt,  non 
"  abhorret,  ita  in  his  vocibiis  qunfi  gcflus  quidam  oris  &  Ipirirus  n.ituialis  eft 
"  Eaden-.  ratio  tft  in  Gracis  quoquc  vocibus  quam  effc  in  noftris  animadvtr- 
"  timus."  A.  GtLtivs,  No<ft.  Atticx,  lib.  x,  cap.  4. 


76  RISE   AND  PROGRESS         Lect.VI. 

with  many  exclamations  and  earnaft  geftures.  The  fmall  fiock 
of  words  which  men  as  yet  pofTefl'ed,  rendered  thofe  helps  abfo- 
lately  necefTary  for  explaining  their  conceptions;  and  rude,  un- 
cultivated men,  not  having  always  at  hand  even  the  fexv  words 
•which  they  knew,  -would  naturally  labour  to  make  themfelves 
underflood,  by  varying  their  tone  of  voice,  and  accompanying 
their  tones  with  the  mofl  fignificant  gefticulations  they  could 
make.  At  this  day,  when  perfons  attempt  to  fpeak  in  any 
Language  which  tliey  poflefs  imperfe£lly,  they  have  recourfe 
to  all  thefe  fupplemental  methods,  in  order  to  render  themfelves 
more  intelligible.  The  plan  too,  according  to  which  I  have 
fliown,  that  Language  was  originally  conflru£^ed,  upon  refem- 
blance  or  analogy,  as  far  as  was  poflible,  to  the  thing  fignified, 
would  naturally  lead  men  to  utter  their  words  w^ith  more  em- 
phafis  and  force,  as  long  as  Language  was  a  fort  of  painting 
by  means  of  found.  For  all  thofe  reafons  this  may  be  afl'umed 
as  a  principle,  that  the  pronunciation  of  the  earlieft  Languages 
was  accompanied  with  more  gefliculaticn,  and  with  more  and 
greater  inflexions  of  voice,  than  what  we  now  ufe  ;  there  was 
more  a£tion  in  it  j  and  it  was  more  upon  a  crying  or  finging 
tone. 

To  this  manner  of  fpeaking,  neceffity  firfl:  gave  rife.  But  we 
muft  obferve,  that,  after  this  neceffity  had,  in  a  great  mcafure^ 
ceafed,  by  Language  becoming,  in  procefs  of  time,  more  ex- 
tenfive  and  copious,  the  ancient  manner  of  Speech  ftill  fubfifted- 
among  mnny  nations  ;  and  what  had  arifen  from  necefTity,  con>- 
tinued  to  be  ufed  for  ornament.  Wherever  there  was  fuch 
fire  and  vivacity  in  the  genius  of  nations,  they  were  naturally 
inclined  to  a  mode  of  convcrfation  which  gratified  the  imagi«. 
nation  fo  much  ;  for,  an  imagination  which  is  warm,  is  al- 
ways prone  to  throw  both  a  great  deal  of  a£tion,  and  a  variety 
of  tones,  into  difcourfe.  Upon  this  principle,-  Dr.  Warburton 
accounts  for  fo  much  fpeaking  by  a6lion,  as  we  find  among  the 
Old  Teftament  prophets  ;  as  when  Jeremiah  breaks  the  pot- 
ter's veffel,  in  fight  '.of  the  people ;  throws  a  book  into  the 
Euphrates  •,  puts  on  bonds  and  yokes  j  and  carries  oat  his 
houfehold  (luff-,  all  which,  he  imagines  might  be  fignificant 
modes  of  exprefllon,  vei-y  natural  in  thofe  ages,  when  men 
were  accuftomed  to  explain  themfelves  fo  much  by  a-fiiiDns 

and 


Iect.VI.  of  language.  77 

and  geftures.  In  like  manner,  among  the  northern  American 
tribes,  certain  motions  and  actions  were  found  to  be  much 
ufed  as  explanatory  of  their  meaning,  on  all  their  great  oc- 
cafions  of  intercourfe  with  each  other  ;  and  by  the  belts  and 
Itrings  of  wampum,  which  they  gave  and  received,  they 
were  accuRomed  to  declare  their  meaning,  as  much  as  by 
their  difcourfes. 

With  regard  to  inflexions  of  voice,  thefe  are  fo  natural,  that 
"to  fome  nations,  it  has  appeared  eafier  to  exprefs  different  ideas, 
by  varying  the  tone  M^ith  which  they  pronounced  the  fame 
word,  than  to  contrive  words  for  all  their  Ideas.  This  is  the 
pra£lice  of  the  Chinefe  in  particular.  The  number  of  words 
in  their  Language  is  faid  not  to  be  great ;  but,  in  fpeaking,  they 
vary  each  of  their  words  on  no  lefs  than  five  different  tones, 
by  which  they  make  the  fame  word  fignlfy  five  different  things. 
This  muil;  give  a  great  appearance  of  mufic  or  finging  to  their 
Speech.  For  thofe  Inflexions  of  voice  which,  In  the  infancy 
of  Language,  were  no  more  than  harfli  or  diffonant  cries,  muft, 
a^  Language  gradually  polifiies,  pafs  into  more  fmooth  and  mu- 
fical  founds  ;  and  hence  is  formed,  what  we  call,  the  Profody  of 
a  Language. 

It  is  remarkable,  and  deferves  attention  that,  both  "in  the 
Greek  and  Roman  Languages,  this  mufical  and  gelllculating  pro- 
nunciation was  retained  in  a  very  high  degree.  Without  hav- 
ing attended  to  this,  we  will  be  at  a  lofs  in  undcrftanding  feveral 
paffages  of  the  claffics,  which  relate  to  the  public  fpeaking,  and 
the  theatrical  entertainments,  of  the  ancients.  It  appears  from 
many  circumftances,  that  the  profody  both  of  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans, was  carried  much  farther  than  ours  j  or  that  they  fpoke 
w-Ith  more  and  flronger  Inflexions  of  voice  than  we  ufe.  The 
quantity  of  their  fyllables  was  much  more  fixed  than  in  any  of 
the  modern  Languages,  and  rendered  much  more  fcnfible  to  the 
ear  in  pronouncing  them.  Befides  quantities,  or  the  difference 
of  (hort  and  long  accents  were  phicec^  upon  fyllables,  the  acute, 
grave,  and  circumflex  ;  the  ufe  of  which  accents  we  have  now 
entirely  loft, but  which,  we  know,  determined  tlie  fpeaker's  voice 
to  raife  or  fall.  Our  modern  pronunciation  muft  have  ap- 
peared to  them  a  lifelefs  monotony.  The  declamation  of  their 
orators,  and  the  pronunciation  of  their  a6lors  upon  the  ftage, 
approached  to  the  nature  of  recitative  in  mufic  j  was  capable 

of 


78  RISE   AND  PROGRESS         Lect.VL 

of  being  marked  in  notes,  and  fupportcd  with  inftrmnents  ;  as 
fcveral  learned  men  have  fully  proved.  And  if  this  was  the 
cafe,  as  they  have  Ihown,  among  the  Pwomans,  the  Greeks,  it 
is  well  known,  were  fall  a  more  mufical  people  than  tlie  Ro- 
mans, and  carried  tl^eir  attention  to  tone  and  pronunciation 
•much  farther  in  every  public  exhibition.  Arillotle,  in  his 
Poetics,  confiders  the  mufic  of  Tragedy  as  one  of  its  chief  and 
mod  efTential  parts. 

The  cafe  was  parallel  with  regard  to  geftures  :  for  ftrong 
tones,  and  animated  geftures,  we  may  obferve,  always  go  to- 
gether. Action  is  treated  of  by  all  the  ancient  critics,  as  the 
chief  quality  in  every  public  fpeaker.  The  action,  both  of  the 
orators  and  the  players  in  Greece  and  Rome,  was  far  more 
vehement  than  what  we  are  accuftomed  to.  Rofcius  would 
have  feemed  a  madman  to  us.  Gefture  was  of  fuch  confe- 
quence  upon  the  ancient  ftage,  that  there  is  reafon  for  believ- 
ing, that,  on  feme  occafions,  the  fpeaking  and  the  acting  part 
were  divided,  which,  according  to  our  ideas,  would  form  a 
ftrange  exhibition  ;  one  player  fpoke  the  words  in  the  proper 
tones,  while  another  performed  the  correfponding  motions  and 
geftures.  We  learn  from  Cicero,  that  it  was  a  conteft  between 
him  ai4d  Rofcius,  whether  he  could  cxprefs  a  fentiment  in  a 
greater  variety  of  phrafes,  or  Rofcius  in  a  greater  variety  of 
intelligible  Cgnificant  geftures.  At  laft,  geilure  came  to  en- 
grofs  the  ftage  wholly  ;  for,  under  the  reigns  of  Auguftus  and 
Tiberius,  the  favourite  entertainment  of  the  public  was  the 
pantomime,  v/hich  was  carried  on  entirely  by  mute  gefticulation. 
The  people  were  moved,  and  wep£at  it,  as  much  as  at  tragedies; 
and  the  paffion  for  it  became  fo  ftrong,  that  laws  were  obliged 
to  be  made,  for  rcftraining  the  fenators  from  ftudying  the  pan- 
tomime art.  Now,  though  in  declamations  and  theatrical  exhi- 
bitions, both  tone  and  gcllure  were,  doubtlefs,  carried  much  far- 
ther than  in  common  difcourfe  j  yet  public  fpeaking,  of  any  kind, 
muft,  in  every  country,  bear  fome  proportion  to  the  manner  that 
is  ufed  in  converfation ;  and  fuch  public  entertainments  as  I  have 
now  mentioned,  could  never  have  been  relifned  by  a  nation, 
whofe  tones  and  geftures,  in  difcourfe,  were  as  languid  as  our8. 

When  the  Barbarians  fpread  themfelves  over  the  Roman 
empire,  thefe  more  phlegmatic  nations  did  not  retain  the  accents, 
the  tones  and  geftures,  which  neceflity  at  firft  introduced,  and 

cuftora 


tECT.VI.  OF    LANGUAGE.  79 

cuflom  and  fancy  afterwards  fo  long  fupportcd,  in  the  Greek 
and  Roman  Languages.  As  the  Latin  Tongue  was  loft  In  their 
idioms,  fo  the  charadler  of  fpeech  and  pronunciation  began  to 
be  changed  throughout  Europe.  Nothing  of  the  fame  atten- 
tion was  paid  to  the  mufic  of  Language,  or  to  the  pomp  of 
declamation,  and  theatrical  adlion.  Both  convcrfation  and  pub- 
lic fpcaking  became  more  fmiple  and  plain,  fuch  as  we  now  find 
it ;  without  that  enthufiaftic  mixture  of  tones  and  geflures^ 
which  diftinguiihed  the  ancieiit  nations.  At  the  refloration  of 
letters,  thegenius  of  Language  wasfo  much  altered,  and  the  man- 
ners of  the  people  had  become  fo  different,  that  it  was  no  eafy 
matter  to  imderftand  what  the  Ancients  had  fald,  concerning 
their  declamations  and  public  fpectacles.  Our  plain  manner  of 
fpeaking,  in  thefe  northern  countries,  exprefles  the  paflions  with 
fufficient  energy,  to  move  thofe  who  are  not  accuftomed  to  any 
more  vehement  manner.  But,  undoubtedly,  more  varied  tones, 
and  more  animated  motions,  carry  a  natural  cxpreflion  of  warm- 
er feelings.  Accordingly,  in  different  modern  Languages,  the 
profody  of  fpeech  partakes  more  of  mufic,  in  proportion  to  the 
iivelinefs  and  fenfibility  of  the  people.  A  Frenchman  both 
varies  his  accents,  and  gefticulatos,  while  he  fpeaks,  much  more 
than  an  Engliflnnan.  An  Italian,  a  great  deal  more  than 
either.  Mufical  pronune^-atlon  and  expreffive  gefture  are,  to 
this  day,  the  diltin6tion  of  Italy. 

From  the  pronunciation  of  Language,  let  us  proceed,  in  the 
third  place,  to  confider  the  Style  of  Language  in  its  mod  early 
Hate,  and  its  progrefs  in  this  refpe£l:  alfo.  As  the  manner 
in  which  men  firlt  uttered  their  words,  and  maintained  con- 
vcrfation, was  ftrong  and  expreffive,  enforcing  their  imperfe£lly 
expreffed  ideas  by  cries  and  geflures  •,  fo  the  Language  which 
they  ufed,  could  be  no  other  than  full  of  figures  and  metaphors, 
not  correal:  indeed,  but  forcible  and  piclurefque.    - 

We  are  apt,  upon  a  fuperficiai  view,  to  imagine,  tliat  thofc 
modes  of  expreffion  which  arc  called  Figures  of  Speech,  are 
among  the  chief  refinements  of  Speech,  not  invented  till  after 
Language  had  advanced  to  Its  later  periods,  and  mankind  w^ere 
brought  into  a  polilhed  ftate  ;  and  that,  then,  they  were  de- 
vifed  by  orators  'and  rhetoricians.  The  quite  contrary  of 
this  is  the  truth.  Mankind  never  employed  fo  many  figures 
of  Speech,  as  when  they  had  hardly  any  words  for  expreffing 
their  meaning.  For 


8o  RISE   AND  PROGRESS         Lect-VI, 

For,  firft,  the  want  of  proper  names  for  every  obje£l, 
obliged  them  to  ufe  one  name  for  many  ;  and,  of  courfe,  to  ex- 
prefs  themfelves  by  cofnparifons,  metaphors,  allufions,  and  all 
tliofe  fubftituted  forms  of  Speech  which  render  Language 
figurative.  Next,  as  the  objects  with  which  they  were  mod 
converfant,  were  the  f'infible,  material  objects  around  them, 
names  would  be  given  to  thofe  objects  long  before  words  were 
invented  for  fignifying  the  difpofuions  of  the  mind,  or  any  fort 
of  mpral  and  intellectual  ideas.  Hence,  the  early  Language 
of  men  being  entirely  made  up  of  v/ords  defcriptive  of  fenfible 
objeiftsj  it  became  of  neceflity  extremely  metaphorical.  For, 
to  fignify  any  defire  or  palTion,  or  ariy  a6t  or  feeling  of  the 
mind,  they  had  no  precife  exprelHon  which  was  appropriated 
to  that  purpofe,  but  were  under  a  neceflity  of  painting  the 
emotion  or  paflion  which  they  felt,  by  allufion  to  thofe  fenfible 
cbjedts  which  had  moft  relation  to  it,  and  which  could  render 
it,  in  fome  fort,  vifible  to  others,. 

But  it  was  not  neceflity  alone,  that  gave  rife  to  this  figured 
ftyle.  Other  circumftances  alfo,  at  the  commencement  of  Lan- 
guage, contributed  to  it.  In  the  infancy  of  all  focieties,  men 
are  much  under  the  dominion  of  imagination  and  paflion. 
They  live  fcattered  and  difperfed  ;  they  are  unacquainted  with 
the  courfe  of  things  j  they  are,  every  day,  meeting  with  new 
and  ftrange  objects.  Fear  and  furprife,  wonder  and  afl:onifli- 
ment,  are  their  molt  frequent  palhons.  Their  Language  will 
ncceflarily  partake  of  this  chara6ter  of  their  minds.  They  will 
be  prone  to  exaggeration  and  hyperbole.  They  will  be  given 
to  defcribe  every  thing  with  the  ftrongclt  colours,  and  moil  ve- 
hement expreflions  •,  infinitely  more  than  men  living  in  tlie  ad- 
vanced and  cultivated  periods  of  Society,  when  their  imagina- 
tions are  more  chaflened,  their  pafilons  are  more  tamed,  and  a 
wider  experience  has  rendered  the  objects  of  life  more  familiar 
to  them.  Even  the  manner  in  which  I  before  fliewed  that  the 
firlt  tribes  of  men  uttered  their  words,  would  have  confiderable 
influence  on  their  fl:yle.  Wherever  flirong  exclamations,  tones, 
and  gefliures,  enter  much  into  converfation,  the  imagination  is 
always  more  exercifed  ;  a  greater  effort  of  fancy  and  paflion  is 
excited.  Confequently,  the  fancy  kept  awake,  and  rendered 
more  fprightly  by  this  mode  of  utteraucei  operates  upon  ftyle, 
*iid  enl^ve.as  it  more*  Thefe 


Iect.VI.  of    language.  rSi 

Thefe  reafonings  are  confirmed  by  undoubted  fa£ts.  The 
ftyle  of  all  the  moll  early  Languages,  among  nations  who  are 
in  the  firft  and  rude  periods  of  Society,  is  found,  without  ex- 
ception, to  be  full  of  figures  ;  hyperbolical  and  pidlurefquc  in 
a  high  degree.  ,We  have  a  ilriking  inftance  of  this  in  the 
American  Languages,  which  are  known,  by  the  moft  authentic 
accounts,  to  be  figurative  to  exccfs.  The  Iroquois  and  Illinois 
carry  on  their  treaties  and  public  tranfaclions  wirh  bolder  metr 
aphors,  and  greater  pomp  of  ftyle,  than  we  ufc  in  oar  poetical 
produc'^ions.* 

Another*  remarkable  inftance  is,  the  ftyle  of  the  Old  Tefta* 
ment,  which  is  carried  on  by  conftant  allufions  to  fenfible  ob- 
]eO:s.  Iniquity,  or  guilt,  is  exprefled  by  "  a  fpotted  garment  j" 
mifery,  by  "  drinking  the  cup  af  aftonilhaient ,"  vain  purfuits, 
by  "  feeding  on  afties  ;"  a  finful  life,  by  "  ^  crooked  path  j'* 
profperity,  by  "  the  candle  of  the  Lord  fliining  on  our  head  " 
and  the  like,  in  innumerable  iuftances.  Hence,  we  have  beea 
accuftomed  to  call  this  fort  of  ftyle  the  Oriental  Style  ;  as 
fancying  it  to  be  peculiar  to  the  nations  of  the  Eaft  :  Whereas, 
from  the  American  Style,  and  from  many  other  inftances,  it 
plainly  appears  not  to  have  been  peculiar  to  any  one  region  or 
climate  ;  but  to  have  been  common  to  all  nations,  in  certain 
periods  of  Society  and  Language.     . 

Hence, 

*  Thu"!,  to  give  an  inftance  of  the  fmgular  flyle'^af  thefe  nations,  the  Five 
Nations  of  Canada  when  entering  on  a  treaty  of  peace  with  us,  cxprtfTed  them- 
felvcs  by  tlicir  chiefs,  in  the  following  language  :  "  We  are  happy  in  having 
"  huricd  un<ler  ground  tiie  red  axe,  that  lias  fo  often  been  dyed  with  the  blood 
"of  onr  brethren.  Now,  in  this  fort,  we  inter  the  axe,  and  plant  the  tree  of 
"  Peace.  Wc  plant  a  tree,  whofe  top  will  reach  the  Sun,  and  its  branches 
"  fprtad  abroad,  fo  tliat  it  lliali  lie  I'ccn  afar  ofF,  May  its  growth  never  be  flifled 
"  and  choked  ;  but  may  it  fliade  both  your  country  and  ours  with  its  leaves  I 
*'  Let  us  make  fafl  its  roots,  and  extend  them  to  the  utmoft  of  your  colonicf. 
"  If  the  Frcnrii  lliouldcome  to  (liakc  tliis  tree,  we  would  know  it  by  the  motion 
"  of  it.-i  roots  reaching  into  our  country.  May  the  Great  Spirit  allow  us  to  reft 
"  in  tranquillity  upon  our  mats,  and  never  again  dig  up  the  axe  to  cut  dowa 
"  the  tree  of  Peace  !  Let  the  earth  be  trod  hard  over  it,  where  it  lies  buried. 
*'•  Let  a  rtrong  Qrcam  run  \n-ider  the  pit,  to  wafh  the  evil  away  out  of  our  fight 
•'  and  remembrance.  The  fire  that  had  loug  burned  in  Albany  is  cxtinguiflied. 
"  The  bloody  bed  is  waflicd  clean,  and  the  tears  are  wiped  from  our  eyes. 
"  We  now  renew  the  covenant  chain  of  friendfliip.  Let  it  be  kept  bright 
"  and  clean  as  fdver,  and  not  fufFcrcd  to  contraifk  any  mil:.  Let  not  any  one 
"  pull  aw;iy  his  arm  from' it."  'I'hcfe  paffages  are  cxtracled  from  Cadwalli- 
dcr  Gulden's  Hiftory  of  the  Five  Indian  Nations,  where  it  appears,  from  ttl* 
authentic  ducuuicnta  lie  produces,  that  fuch  ij  their  genuine  Ilylc. 

M 


82  RISE  AND  PROGRESS,  &c.        Lect.VL 

Hence,  we  may  receive  fome  light  concerning  that  fecming 
paradox,  that  Poetry  is  more  ancient  than  Profe.  I  (hall  have 
occafion  to  difcufs  this  point  fully  hereafter,  vv^hen  I  come  to 
treat  of  the  Nature  and  Origin  of  Poetry.  At  prefent,  it  is  fuf- 
llcient  to  obferve,  that  from  what  has  been  faid  it  plainly  ap- 
pears, that  the  ftyle  of  all  Language  mull  have  been  originally 
poetical  -,  ftrongly  tindlured  with  that  enthufiafm,  and  that  de- 
fcriptive,  metaphorical  exprefiion,  which  diftinguiflies  Poetry. 

As  Language,  in  its  progrefs,  began  to  grow  more  copious, 
it  gradually  loft  that  figurative  ftyle,  which  was  its  early  char- 
a£ter.  When  men  were  furnifhed  with  proper  and  familiar 
names  for  every  objefl,  both  fenfible  and  moral,  they  were  not 
obliged  to  ufe  fo  many  circumlocutions.  Style  became  more 
precife,  and,  of  courfe,  more  fimplc.  Imagination,  too,  in  pro- 
portion as  Society  advanced,  had  lefs  influence  over  mankind. 
The  vehement  manner  of  fpcaking  by  tones  and  geftures,  be- 
came not  fo  univerfal.  The  underftanding  was  more  exercif- 
cd  ;  the  fancVi  lefs.  Intercourfe  among  mankind  becoming 
more  extenfive  and  frequent,  clearnefs  of  ftyle,  in  fignifying 
their  meaning  to  each  other,  was  the  chief  obje£l  of  attention. 
In  place  of  poets,  philofophers  became  the  inftrudlors  of  men  ; 
and,  in  their  reafonings  on  all  different  fubje£ts,  introduced 
that  plainer  and  fimplcr  ftyle  of  compofition,  which  we  now 
call  Profe.  Among  the  Greeks,  Pherecydes  of  Scyros,  the  maf- 
ter  of  Pythagoras,  is  recorded  to  have  been  the  firft,  who,  in 
this  fenfe,  compofed  any  writing  in  Profe.  The  ancient  meta- 
'phorical  and  poetical  drefs  of  Language,  was  now  laid  afule  from 
the  intercourfe  of  men,  and  referved  for  thofe  occafions  only, 
on  which  ornament  was  profefledly  ftudied. 

Thus  Ihavc  purfued  the Hiftory  of  Language  throughfome  of 
the  variations  it  has  undergone :  I  have  confidered  it,  in  the 
firjl  ftru6lure,  and  compofition,  of  words  ;  in  the  manner  of 
uttering  or  pronouncing  words  ;  and  in  the  ftyle  and  charafter 
of  Speech.  I  have  yet  to  conlider  it  in  another  view,  rcfpe(ft- 
Ing  the  order  and  arrangement  of  words  ;  when  we  ftiall  find 
a  progrefs  to  have  taken  place,  fimilar  to  what  I  have  been  now 
illuftrating. 

LECTURE 


leqg-^g ''wiyM  J."  VMi'*»g-T^-^?*y* 


LECTURE         VII. 


RISE   AND    PROGRESS   OF   LANGUAGE,    AND  OF 
WRITING. 

VV  HEN  we  attend  to  the  order  in  which  words  are 
arranged  in  a  fentence,  or  fignificant  propofition,  we  find  a  very 
remarkable  difference  between  the  ancient  and  the  modern 
Tongues.  The  confideration  of  this  will  ferve  to  unfold  farther 
the  genius  of  Language,  and  to  (how  the  caufes  of  thofe  alter- 
ations, which  it  has  undergone,  in  the  progrefs  of  Society. 

In  order  to  conceive  diftintlly  the  nature  of  that  alteration  of 
which  I  now  fpeak,  let  us  go  back,  as  we  did  formerly,  to  the 
mod  early  period  of  Language.  Let  us  figure  to  ourfelves  a 
Savage,  who  behplds  fome  object,  fuch  as  fruit,  which  raifes  his 
defire,  and  who  requefts  another  to  give  it  to  him.  Suppofing 
our  S.ivage  to  be  unacquainted  with  words,  he  would  in  that 
cafe,  labour  to  make  himfelf  be  underftood,  by  pointing  earneft- 
ly  at  the  obje£l  which  he  defired,  and  uttering  at  the  f»mc  time 
a  paflionate  cry.  Suppofing  him  to  have  acquired  words,  the 
firft  word  which  he  uttered  would,  of  courfe,  be  the  name  of 
that  objc6t.  He  would  not  exprefs  himfelf,  according  to  our 
Englilh  order  of  conftruQion,  "  Give  me  fruit ;"  but  according 
to  the  Latin  order,  "Fruit  give  me  j"  "  Fruftum  da. mihi  ;.'* 
for  this  plain  rcafon,  that  his  attention  was  wholly  diredlcd 
towards  fruit,  the  dcfired  objc6l.  This  was  the  exciting  idea  ; 
the  objeft  which  moved  him  to  fpeafc ;  and,  of  courfe,  would 
be  the  firft  named.  Such  an  arrangement  is  precifely  putting 
into  words  the  gefture  which  nature  taught  the  Savage  to  make, 
before  he  was  acquainted  with  words  ;  and  therefore  it  mny 
be  depended  upon  as  certain,  that  he  would  fall  moft  readily 
into  this  arrangement. 

Accuftomed  now  to  a  different  method  of  ordering  oui: 
words,  we  call  this  an  inverfion,  ai^d  cpnfider  it  as  a  forced  and 

unnatural 


84  RISE   AND   PROGRESS  Lect.VII. 

UTiriatural  order  of  Speecli. "  But'dioiigK  not  tlie  moft  logical, 
it  is,  however,  in  one  view,  the  moll  natural  order  ;  becaufe, 
it  is  the  qr,d;E^  fuggeflied  by,  imagination  and  defire,  M-hich  al- 
ways impel  us  to  mention  fheir  objedl  in  the  firll  place.  We 
might  therefore  conclude,  a  priori,  that  this  would  be  the  order 
in  which  words  were  mod  commonly  arranged  at  the  beginnings 
of  Language  ;  and  accordingly  we  find,  in  fa£l:,  that,  in  this  or- 
der, words  are  arranged  in  moft  of  the  ancient  Tongues  ;  as  in 
the  Greek  and  the  Lntiii ;  and  it  is  faid  alfo,  in  the  Ruffian,  the 
Sclavonic,  the  Gaelic,  and  feverai  of  the  American  Tongues. 

In  the  Latin  Language,  the  .arrangement  which  molt  com- 
monly obtains,  is,  to  place  firH:  in  the  lentence,  that  word  which 
cxprefles  the  principal  object  of  the  difcourfe,  together  with  itf 
circumftances  ;  and  afterwards,  the  petfon  or  the  thing  that 
a6ls  upon  it.  ♦•Thus  Sallull,  comparing  together  the  mind  and 
the  body  •,  "  Aniirii  imperio,  corporis  fervitio,  magis  utimur  ;" 
■which  Order  certainly  renders  the  fentence  more  lively  and 
ftriking,  than  when  it  is  arranged  according  to  our  En^lifh 
conftruclion  j  *'We  make  moft  ufe  of  the  direftion  of  the  foul^ 
**  and  of  the  fervice  df  the  body."  The  Latin  order  gratifies 
more  the  rapidity  of  the  imagination,  which  naturally  runs  firft 
to  that  which  is  its  chief  objeft  j  and  having  once  named  it# 
carries  it  in  view  throughout  the  reft  of  the  fentence.  Iii  the 
fame  manner  in  poetry  : 

Juftum  8c  tenacem  propofili  virnm, 
*                Non  civium  ardor  pr.iva  jubcntiurti, 
"                    Non  vultus  inftantistyranni, 
Mente  quatit  folida. 

Every  perfon  of  tafte  muft  be  f^nfible,  that  here  the  words  are 
arranged  •V^'itli  a  much  greater  regard  to  the  figure  which  the 
feverai  objeds  riiake  in  the  fancy,  than  our  Englifti  conftruclion 
admits  ;  which  would  require  the  "Juftum  S:  tenacem  propofi- 
**  ti  virum,"  though,  undoubtedly,  the  capital  object  in  the  fen- 
tence, to  be  thrown  into  the  laft  place. 

I  have  faid,  that,  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  Languages,  the 
moft  common  arrangement  is,  to  place  that  firft  which  ftrikes 
the  imagination  of  the  fpeaker  moft.  I  do  not,  however,  pre- 
tend, that  this  holds  without  exception.  Sometimes  regard  t6 
the  harmony  of  the  period  requires  a  different  order ;  and  in 
Languages  fufceptible  of  fo  much  mufical  beauty,  and  pro- 
nounced 


■^.. 


Lect.VII.  of    language.  85 

nounced  with  fo  rhuch  tone  and  modulation  ag  wferc  ufed  hy 
thofe  nations,  the  harmony  of  periods  was  an  obje£t  carefully 
ftudied.  Sometimes,  too,  attention  to  the  perfpicuity,  to  the 
force,  or  to  the  artful  fufpenfion  of  the  fpeaker's  meaning,  alter 
this  order ;  and  produce  fuch  varieties  in  the  arrangement, 
that  it  is  not  eafy  to  reduce  them- to  any  one  principle.  But, 
in  general^  this  was  the,  genius  and  the  charadler  of  moft  of 
the  ancient  Languages,  to  give  fuch  full  liberty  to  tltc  colloca- 
tion of  words,  as  allowed  them  to  afiume  whatever  order  was 
moft  agreeable  to  the  fpeaker's  imagination.  The  Hebrew  is, 
indeed,  an  exception  ;  which,  though  not  altogether  without' 
inverfions,  yet  employs  them  lefs  frequently,  and  approaches 
Tiearer  to  the  Englifli  conftructibnj  than  either  the  Greek  or 
the  Latin. 

All  the  modern  Languages  of  Europe  have^dopted  a  dif- 
ferent arrangement  from  the  ancieht.  In  tlieir  Profe  compo- 
fitiohs,  very  little  variety  is  admitted  in  the  collocation  of 
words  J  they  are  moftly  fixed  to  one  order,  and  that  order  isj 
what  may  be  called,  the  Order  of  the  Underftanding.  They 
place  firft  in  the  fentenee,  the  perfon  or  tiling  v/hich  fpeaks  or 
a£ls  i  next,  its  a^ion  ;  and  laftly,  the  object  of  its  action. 
So  that  the  ideas  are  made  to  fucceed  to  one  another,  not  ac- 
cording to  the  degree  of  importance  which  the  feveral  objects 
carry  in  the  imagination,  but  according  to  the  order  of  nature 
and  of  time. 

An  Englifli  writer,  paying  a  compliment  to  a  great  maM> 
would  fay  thus :  *'  It  is  impolhble  for  me  to  pafs  over,  in  fi- 
*'  lence,  fuch  remarkable  mildnefs,  fuch  fingular  and  unheard- 
**  of  clemency,  and  fuch  unufual  moderation,  in  the  excrcife 
**  of  fupreme  power."  Here  we  have,  firft  prefented  to  us, 
the  perfon  who  fjpeaks.  "  It  is  impofTible  for  me ,"  next;  what 
that  perfon  is  to  do,  *'  impoflTible  for  him  to  pnfi  oveicvi ftkncc  -^ 
and -laftly,  the  objecl:  which  moves  him  fo  to  do,  **  the  mildnefs, 
**  clemency,  and  moderation  of  his  patront"  Cicero,  trom 
whom  I  have  tranflated  tlicfe  words,  juft  reverfcs  tliis  order.j 
beginning  with  the  objeft,  placing  that  firft  which  was  the 
exciting  idea  in  the  fpeaker's  mind,  and  ending  with  the  fpeaker 
and  his  a£lion.  "  Tanfam  manfuetudinem,  tarn  inufitataav 
**  inauditamque  clementiam,  tantumque  in  fumma  poteP.ate 
"  rerum  omnium  modum,  tacitus  nullo  modo  prxterire  poftum.'' 
(Orat.  proMarcell.)  The 


86  RISE   AND    PROGRESS  Lect.VII: 

The  Latin  order  is  more  animated  ;  the  Englifh,  more  clear 
and  diftin£t.  The  Romans  generally  arranged  their  words 
according  to  the  order  in  which  the  ide^ti  rofe  in  the  fpeaker's 
imagination.  We  arrans^e  them  according:  to  the  order  in 
which  the  underftanding  diredls  thofe  ideas  to  be  exhibited,  in 
fucceffion,  to  the  view  of  another.  Our  arrangement,  there- 
fore, appears  to  be  the  confequence  of  greater  refinement  in  the 
art  of  Speech ;  as  far  as  clearnefs  in  communication  is  under- 
ftood  to  be.  the  end  of  Speech. 

In  Poetry,  where  we  are  fuppofed  to  rife  above  the  ordinary 
flyle,  and  to  fpeak  the  Language  of  fancy  and  pnlTion,  our  ar-^ 
rangement  is  not  altogether  fo  limited  ;  but  fome  greater  liberty 
is  allowed  for  tranfpofition,  and  inverfion.  Even  there,  however* 
that  liberty  is  confined  within  narrow  bounds,  in  comparifon  of 
the  Ancient  Languages.  The  different  Modern  Tongues  vary 
from  one  another  in  this  refpe6l.  The  French  Language  is,  of 
them  all,  the  mod  determinate  in  the  order  of  its  words,  and  ad- 
mits the  lead  of  inverfion,  either  in  Profe  or  Poetry.  The 
Englifli  admits  it  more.  But  the  Italian  retains  the  moft  of  the 
ancient  tranfpofitive  charadler  ;  though  one  is  apt  to  think,  at 
the  expenfe  of  a  little  obfcurity  in  the  ftyle  of  fome  of  their  au- 
thors, who  deal  moft  in  thefe  tranfpofitions. 

.  It  is  proper,  next,  to  obferve,  that  there  is  one  circumflance 
in  the  ftrudlure  of  all  the  Modern  Tongues,  which,  of  neceffity, 
limits  their  arrangement,  in  a  great  meafure,  to  one  fixed  and 
d|terminate  train.  We  have  difufed  thofe  differences  of  ter- 
mination, which,  in  the  Greek  and  Latin,  diftinguiflied  the  fev- 
eral  cafes  of  nouns,  and  tenfes  of  verbs  ;  and  which,  thereby, 
pointed  out  the  mutual  relation  of  the  feveral  words  in  a  fentencc 
to  one  another,  though  the  related  words  were  disjoined,  and 
placed  in  different  parts  of  the  fentence. '  This  is  an  alteration 
in  the  ftruclure  of  Language,  of  which  I  fhall  have  occafion  to 
fay  more  in  the  next  Le«3:ure.  One  obvious  effe£t  of  it  is,  that 
we  have  now,  for  the  moft  part,  no  way  left  us  to  fliew  the 
clofe  relation  of  any  two  words  to  one  another  in  meaning,  but 
by  placing  them  clofe  to  one  another  in  the  period.  For  in- 
ftance  j  the  Romans  could,  with  propriety,  exprefs  themfelves 
thus  ; 

Extin(51am  nymphse  crudeli  funere  Daphnim 

Becaufe 


Lect.VII.  of    language.  37 

Becaufe  "Extln£lum  et  Daplmlm"  being  both  in  the  accufa- 
tive  cafe,  this  fiiowed,  that  the  adjeQive  and  the  fubftantive 
were  related  to  each  other,  though  placed  at  the  two  extremi- 
ties of  the  line  5  and  that  both  were  governed  by  the  ailive 
verb  "Flebant,"  to  which  "nymphse"  plainly  appeared  to  be 
the  nominative.  The  different  terminations  here  reduced  all 
into  order,  and  made  the  connexion  of  the  feveral  words  per- 
fectly clear.  But  let  us  tranflate  thefe  words  literally  into  Eiig- 
lifli,  according  to  the  Latin  arrangement ;  "  Dead  the  nymphs 
*'  by  a  cruel  fate  Daphnis  lamented  ;"  and  they  become  a  per- 
fect riddle,  in  which  it  is  impoflible  to  fuid  any  meaning. 

It  was  by  means  of  this  contrivance,  which  obtained  in  al- 
moft  all  the  Ancient  Languages,  of  varying  the  termination  of 
nouns  and  verbs,  and  thereby  pointing  out  the  concordance 
and  the  government  of  the  words,  in  a  fentence,  that  they  en- 
joyed fo  much  liberty  of  tranfpofition,  and  could  mrirflial  and 
arrange  their  words  in  any  way  that  gratified  the  imagination, 
or  pleafed  the  ear.  When  Language  came  to  be  modelled  by 
the  northern  nations  who  over-run  the  empire,  they  dropped 
the  cafes  of  nouns,  and  the  different  terminations  of  verbs, 
with  the  more  eafe,  becaufe  they  placed  no  great  value  upon 
the  advantages  arifing  from  fuch  a  flrudlure  of  Language.  They 
were  attentive  only  to  clearnefs,  and  copioufncfs  of  expreffion. 
They  neither  regarded  much  the  harmony  of  found,  nor  fought 
to  gratify  the  imagination  by  the  collocation  of  words.  They 
lludied  folely  to  exprefs  themfelves  in  fuch  a  manner  as  fliould 
exhibit  their  ideas  to  others  in  the  moll  diflin£l  and  intelligible 
order.  And  hence,  if  our  Language,  by  reafon  of  the  fim- 
plc  arrangement  of  its  words,  poffeffcs  Icfs  harmony,  lefs 
beauty,  and  lefs  force,  than  the  Greek  or  Latin  j  it  is,  how- 
ever, in  its  meaning,  more  obvious  and  plain. 

Thus  I  have  (hown  what  tlie  natural  Progrcfs  of  Language  has 
been,  in  feveral  material  articles  ;  and  this  account  of  the  Ge- 
nius and  Progrefs  of  Language,  lays  a  foundation  for  many  ob- 
fervations,  both  curious  and  ufeful.  From  uhat  has  been  faid 
in  this,  and  the  preceding  Le£l:urc,  it  appears,  that  Language 
was  at  firfl  barren  in  words,  but  defcriptive  by  the  found  of 
thcfe  words }  and  expreffive  in  the  manner  of  uttering  them, 
by  the  aid  of  fignificant  tones  and  geftures :  Klylc  was  figura- 
tive 


SS  RISE    AND    PROGRESS         Lect.  VII. 

tive  and  poetical :  arrangement  was  fanciful  and  lively.  It  ap- 
pears, that,  in  all  the  fuccelTive  changi^s  which  Language  has 
undergone,  as  the  world  advanced,  the  underftanding  has  gain- 
ed ground  en  the  fancy  and  imagination.  The  Progrefs  of 
Language,  In  this  refpeil,  refembles  the  progrefs  of  age  in 
man.  The  imagination  is  moil  vigorous  and  predominant  in 
youth  ;  with  advancing  years,  the  imagination  cools,  and  the 
underftanding  ripens.  Thus  Language,  proceeding  from  fter- 
ility  to  coploufnefs,  hath,  at  the  fame  time,  proceeded  from 
vivacity  to  accuracy  j  from  fire  and  enthufiafm,  to  coolnefs 
and  precifion.  Thofe  cliaraflers  of  early  Language,  defcripi 
tive  found,  vehement  tones  and  gellures,  figurative  ftyle,  and 
inverted  arrangement,  all  hang  together,  have  a  mutual  inllu- 
cnce  on  each  other,  and  have  ail  gradually  given  place  to  arbi- 
trary founds,  calm  pronunciation,  fimple  ftyle,  plain  arrange- 
ment. Language  is  become,  in  modern  times,  more  corredt', 
indeed,  and  accurate ;  but,  however,  lefs  llriking  and  animated  ; 
jn  its  ancient  Hate,  more  favourable  to  poetry  and  oratory  ;  in 
its  prefent,  to  reafon  and  philofophy. 

j[iaving  finished  my  account  of  the  Progrefs  of  Speech,  I 
proceed  to  give  an  account  of  the  Progrefs  of  Writing,  which 
next  demands  our  notice ;  though  it  will  not  require  fo  full 
a  difcuiTion  as  the  former  fubjefl. 

Next  to  Speech,  Writing  is,  beyond  doubt,  the  moft  ufeful 
art  of  which  men  are  pofiefled.  It  is  plainly  an  improvement 
upon  Speech,  and  therefore  muft  have  been  pofterior  to  it  in 
order  of  time.  At  firft,  men  thought  of  nothing  more  than 
communicating  their  thoughts  to  one  another,  when  prefent, 
by  means  of  words,  or  founds,  which  they  uttered.  After- 
wards, they  devifed  this  further  method,  of  mutual  communi- 
cation with  one  another,  when  abfent,'by  means  of  marks  or 
chara£lers  prefented  to  the  eye,  which  we  call  Writing.  > 

Written  characlers  are  of  two  forts.  They  are  either  figns 
for  things,  or  figns  for  words.^  Of  the  former  fort,  figns  of 
things,  are  the  pictures,  hieroglyphics^  and  fymbols,  employed 
by  the  ancient  nations  ;  of  the  latter  fort,  figns  for  words,  are 
the  alphabetical  charaders,  now  employed  by  all  Europeans. 
Thefe  two  kinds  of  Writing  are  generically  and  eiTentlally 
dillina:. 

Pi6lures 


JLtsct.  Vir.  OF    WRITING.  89 

Pitlures  were,  undoubtedly,  the  firft  efTay  towards  Writing. 
'Imitation  is  lb  natural  to  man,  that,  in  all  ages,  and  among  all 
nations,  fomo  methods  have  obtained,  of  copying  or  tracing 
the  likenefs  of  fenfible  ohje6ls.  Thofe  methods  would  fooa 
be  employed  by  men  for  giving  fome  imperfcdl  information 
to  others,  at  a  diibmce,  of  what  had  happened  ;  or,  for  preferv- 
xng  the  memory  of  fadts  which  tliey  fought  to  record.  Thus, 
to  (ignify  that  one  man  had  killed  another,  they  drew  the  figure 
of  one  man  ftretched  upon  the  earth,  and  of  another  Handing 
by  him  with  a  deadly  weapon  iu  his  hand,  f  We  find,  in  fa6l, 
that  when  America  was  firlt  difcovered,  this  was  the  only  fort 
of  Writing  known  in  the  kingdom  of  Mexico.  By  hiitorical 
, pictures,  the  Mexicans  are  laid  to  have  tranlmitted  the  memory 
of  the  moft  important  traufadtions  of  their  empire.  Thefe, 
however,  mud  have  been  extremely  imperfect  records  ;  and 
the  nations  who  had  no  other,  mud  have  been  very  grofs  and 
xude.  Pictures  could  do  no  more  than  delineate  external  events. 
They  could  neither  exhibit  the  connexions  of  them,  nor  defcribe 
fuch  qualities  as  were  nut  vifible  to  the  eye,  nor  convey  any 
;.dea  of  the  difpofitions,  or  words,  of  men. 

To  fupply,  in  fome  degree,  this  dcict):,  there  arofe,  in  pro- 
cefs  of  time,  the  invention  of  what  are  called,  Hieroglyphical 
Characters  ;  which  may  be  confidered  as  the  fecond  Itage  of 
the  Art  of  Writing.  Hieroglyphics  coufill  in  certain  fymbols, 
which  are  made  to  lland  for  invifible  objc6ts,  on  account  of  an 
analogy  or  rclemblance  which  fuch  fymibols  were  fuppofed  to 
bear  to  the  objects.  Thus,  an  eye,  was  the  hieroglyphical  fym- 
bol  of  knowledge  ;  a  circle,  of  eternity,  which  has  neither  be- 
ginning, nor  end.  Hieroglyphics,  therefore,  were  a  more  re- 
fined and  extenfive  fpecies  of  painting.  Pi<i?tures  delineated 
the  rcfemblancc  of  external  vifible  objects.  Hleroglyphici 
painted  Invifible  objects,  by  analogies  taken  from  the  external 
world. 

Among  the  Mexicans,  were  found  fome  traces  of  hieroglyph- 
ical characters,  intermixed  with  their  hiitorical  pictures.  15ut 
Egypt  was  the  country  where  this  fort  of  Wr^yig  was  moft 
ftudied,  and  brought  into  a  regular  art.  In  hieroglyphics,  was 
conveyed  all  the  boalted  wifdom  of  their  priclts.  According  to 
the  properties  which  they  afcribcd  to  Animals,  or  the  qualities 
N  with 


90  RISE    AND   PROGRESS         Lect.  VlL 

with  which  they  fuppofed  natural  obje(£ls  to  be  endowed,  they 
pitched  upon  them  to  be  the  emblems,  or  hieroglyphics,  of  mor- 
al objccls ;  and  employed  them  in  their  Writing  for  that  end. 
Thus,  ingratitude  was  denominated  by  a  viper  ;  imprudence,  by 
a  fly  i  wifdom,  by  an  ant ;  victory,  by  a  hawk  j  a  dutiful  child, 
by  a  llork  ;   a  man  univerfally  (hunned,  by  an  eel,  which  they 
fuppofed  to  be  found  in  company  with  no  other  fifli.     Some- 
times they  joined  together  two  or  iijore  of  thefe  hieroglyphical 
charaders  ;  as,  a  ferpent  with  a  hawk's  head  j  to  denote  nature, 
with  God  prefiding  over  it.     But,  as  many  of 'thofe  properties 
of  obje6ts  which  they  aflhmed  for  the  foundation  of  their  liicro- 
glyphics,  were  merely  imaginary,  and  the  allufions  drawn  frona 
them  were  forced  and  ambiguous  ;  as  the  conjunction  of  their 
characlers  rendered  them  (till  more  obfcure,  and  mud  have  ex- 
prefled  very  indiliiniSlly  the  connexions  and  relations  of  things  ; 
this  fort  of  Writing  could  be  no  other  than  aenigmatical,  and 
ccnfufed  in  the  higheft  degree  ;  and  muft  have  been  a  very  im- 
perfect vehicle  of  knowledge  of  any  kind. 

It  has  been  imagined,  that  hieroglyphics  were  an  invention  of 
the  Egyptian  priefls,  for  concealing  their  learning  from  common 
vfew  ;   and  that,  upon  this  account,  it  was  preferred  by  theih 
to  the  alphabetical  method  of  Writing.     But  this  is  certainly  a 
miftake.     Hieroglyphics  were,  undoubtedly,  employed,  at  firft, 
from  neceflity,  not  from  choice  or  rcfmcmcnt ;  and  would  never 
have  been  thought  of,  if  alphabetical  characters  had  been  known. 
The  nature  of  the  invention  plainly  lliows  it  to  have  been  one 
of  thofe  grofs  and  rude  elFays  towards  Writing,  which  were 
adopted  in  the  early  ages  of  the  world  ;  in  order  to  extend  fome 
farther  the  fird  method  which  they  had  eniployed  of  fnnplc 
pictures,  or  reprefentations  of  vifible  objects.     Indeed,  in  after- 
times,  when  alphabetical  Writing  was  introduced  into  Egypt, 
and  the  hieroglyphical  was,  of  courfe,  fallen  into  difufe,  it  is 
known,  that  the  priefts  (till  employed  the  hieroglyphical  char- 
acters, as  a  facred  kind  of  Writing,  now  become  peculiar  to 
themfelves,  and  ferving  to  give  an  air  of  myitery  to  their  learn- 
ing and  religion.     In  this  Itate,  the  Greeks  found  hieroglyph- 
ical Writing,  when  they  began  to  have  intercourfe'with  Egypt ; 
and  fome  of  their  writers  miftook  this   ufe,  to  which    they 
found  it  applied,  for  the  caufe  that  had  given  rife  to  the  in- 
vention. 

As 


Lr.cT.  Vir.  OF    WRITING.  91 

As  Writing  advanced,  from  pictures  of  vlfible  objects,  to 
hieroglyphics,  or  fymbols  of  things  invifible  ;  from  thefc  latter, 
it  p.dvanced,  among  fome  nations,  to  fimple  arbitrary  marks 
which  flood  for  objcdls,  though  without  any  refemblance  or 
analogy  to  the  objects  fignified.  Of  this  nature  was  the  meth- 
od of  Writing  pracSlifed  among  the  Peruvians.  They  made 
ufe  of  fmall  cords,  of  different  colours  ;  and  by  knots  upon 
thefe,  of  various  fizes,  and  dilFerently  ranged,  they  contrived 
iigns  for  giving  information,  and  communicating  their  thoughts 
to  one  another. 

Of  this  nature  alfo,  are  the  written  characters,  wliich  are 
ufed  to  this  day,  throughout  the  great  empire  of  China.  The 
Chinefe  have  no  alphabet  of  letters,  or  fimple  founds,  which 
compofe  their  words.  But  every  fingle  chara<Sler  which  they 
ufe  in  Writing,  is  fignificant  of  an  idea  ;  it  is  a  mark  which 
Hands  for  fome  one  thing,  or  objc<^.  By  confequencc,  the 
number  of  thefe  chrjraclers  mufl  be  immcnfe.  It  mufl  corrcf- 
pond  to  the  whole  number  of  objedls,  or  ideas,  which  they 
have  occafion  to  exprefs ;  that  is,  to  the  whole  number  of  words 
which  they  employ  in  Speech  :  nay,  it  mufl  be  greater  than 
the  number  of  words  ;  one  word,  by  varying  the  tone,  with 
which  it  is  fpokcn,  may  be  made  to  fignify  feveral  different 
things.  They  are  faid  to  have  feventy  thoufand  of  thofe  writ- 
ten charadlers.  To.  read  and  write  them  to  perfe£lion,  is  the 
fludy  of  a  wliole  life  -,  which  fubjefls  learning,  among  them, 
to  infinite  difadvantage  ;  and  mufl  have  greatly  retarded  the 
progrefs  of  all  fcience. 

Concerning  the  origin  of  thefe  Chinefe  charn6lers,  thev^ 
have  been  different  opinions,  and  much  controverfy.  Accord- 
ing to  the  moft  probable  accounts,  the  Chinefe  Writing  began, 
like  the  Egyptian,  with  pictures,  and  hieroglyphical  figures. 
Thefe  figures  being,  in  progrefa,  abbreviated  iu  their  form,  for  the 
Like  of  writing  them  eafily,  and  gr^^tly  enlarged  in  their  num- 
ber, paffed,  at  length,  into  thofe  marks  or  characflers  which 
they  now  ufe,  and  which  have  fpn'ad  themfclves  tliough  fever- 
al nations  of  the  Eafl.  For  we  are  niformed,  that  the  Japanefe, 
the  Tonquincfc,  and  the  Corocans,  who  fpeak  different  lan- 
guages from  one  another,  and  from  the  inhabitants  of  Cliina, 
ufe,  however,  the  fame  written  characters  M'ith  them  ;  and,  l^y^ 

this 


92  RISE   AND   PROGRESS         Lect.VII. 

this  means,  corrcfpond  intelligibly  with  each  other  in  Writing, 
though  ignorant  of  the  Language  fpoken  in  their  fcATral  coun- 
tries ;  a  plain  proof,  that  the  Chinefe  characters  are,  like  hiero- 
glyphics, independent  of  Language  ;  are  figns  of  things^not 
of  words. 

We  have  one  inftance  of  this  fort  of  Writing'  in  Europe- 
Our  cyphers,  as  they  are  called,  or  arithmetical  iigures,  i,  i^ 
3,  4,  &c.  which  we  have  derived  from  the  Arabians,  are  fig- 
iiificant  marks,  precifcly  of  the  fame  nature  witli  the  Chinefe 
characlers.  They  have  no  dependence  en  words  ;  but  eaclv 
figure  reprefents  an  objeCl  ;  reprefents  the  number  for  which' 
it  Hands  ;  and,  accordingly,  on  being  prefented  to  tlie  eye,  is- 
equally  underftood  by  all  the  nations  who  have  agreed  in  the- 
life  of  thefe  cyphers*,  by  Italians,  Spaniards,  French,  and  Eng- 
lifn,  however  different  the  Languages  of  thofe  nations  are  from. 
one  another,  and  whatever  different  names  they  give,  in  their 
refpettive  Languages,  to  each  numerical  cypher^ 

As  far,  then,  as  we  have  yet  advanced,  nothing  has  appeared 
which  refembles  our  letters,  or  which  can  be  called  Writing^, 
in  the  fenfe  we  now  give  to  that  term.  What  we  have 
hitherto  feen,  were  all  dire£l  figns  for  things,  and  made  no  ufe 
cf  the  medium  of  found,  or  words ;  cither  figns  by  reprefenta- 
tion,  as  the  Mexican  pictures;  or  figns  by  analpc^,  as  the 
Egyptian  hieroglyphics  ;  or  figns  by  inltitution,  as  the  Peruvian 
knots,  the  Chinefe  chara£lers,  and  the  Aiabian  cyphers. 

At  length,  in  different  nations,  men  became  fenfible  of  the 
jmperfe6\ion,  the  ambiguity,  and  the  tedioufnefs  of  eacli  of 
thefe  methods  of  communication  with  one  another.  They  be- 
gan to  confider,  that,  by  employing  figns  winch  fliould  fland 
not  direOly  for  things,  but  for  the  words  which  they  ufcd  in 
Speech  for  naming  thefe  things,  a  confiderable  advantage  would 
be  gained.  For  they  refleCted  farther,  that  though  the  num- 
ber of  words  in  every  Language  be,  indeed,  very  great,  yet  the 
number  of  articulate  founds,  w-hich  are  ufed  in  compofing  thefe 
V'ords,  is  comparatively  fmnll.  The  fame  fimple  founds  are 
continually  recurving  and  repeated  ;  and  are  combined  togeth- 
er, in  various  ways,  for  forming  all  the  variety  of  words  which 
we  utter.  They  brthought  thcmfelves,  therefore,  of  inventing 
figns,  not  for  each  word  by  itftif,  but  for  each  of  th.ofe  fimple 

founds 


Lect.VII.  of    writing. 


93 


founds  which  \vc  employ  in  forming  our  words ;  and,  by  join- 
ing together  a  few  of  tliofc  fgns,  they  faw  that  it  would  be 
practicable  to  exprefs,  in  Writing,  the  whole  combinations  of 
founds  wliich  our  words  require. 

,  The  firft  ftep,  in  this  new  progrefs,  was  the  invention  of 
an  alphabet  of  fyllables,  which  probably  preceded  the  inven- 
tion of  an  alphabet  of  letters,  among  fome  of  the  ancient  na- 
tions ;  and  which  is  faid  to  be  retained  to  this  day,  in  Ethio- 
pia, and  fome  countries  of.India.  By  fixing  upon  a  particular 
mark,  or  chara<fler,  for  every  fvllable  in  the  Language,  the 
number  of  characSters,  necefl'ary  to  be  ufed  in  Writing,  was 
reduced  within  a  much  fmallcr  compafs  than  the  number  of 
w^ords  in  the  Language.  Still,  however,  the  number  of  charac- 
ters was  great  j  and  mufl:  have  continued  to  render  both  read- 
ing and  Writing  very  laborious  arts.  Till,  at  lafl,  fome  happy 
genius  arofe  ;  and  tracing  the  founds  made  by  the  human  voice, 
to  their  mofl  fimple  elements,  reduced  them  to  a  very  few  vow- 
els and  confonants  ;  and,  by  affixing  to  each  of  thefe,  the  figns 
which  we  now  call  Letters,  taught  men  how,  by  their  combi- 
nations, to  put  into  Writing  all  the  different  words,  or  combi- 
nations of  found,  which  they  employed  in  Speech.  By  being 
reduced  to  this  fimpliclty,  the  art  of  Writing  -was  brought  to 
its  highefl  flate  of  perfedllon  ;  and,  in  this  Itate,  we  now  en- 
joy it  in  all  the  countries  of  Europe. 

To  whom  we  are  indebted  for  this  fubllme  and  refined  dif- 
covery,  does  not  appear.  Concealed  by  the  darknefs  of  remote 
antiquity,  the  great  inventor  is  deprived  of  thofe  honours  which 
would  llill  be  paid  to  his  memory,  by  all  the  lovers  of  knowl- 
edge and  learning.  It  appears  from  the  books  which  Mofes 
has  written,  that,  among  the  Jews,  and  probably  among  the 
Egyptians,  letters  had  been  invented  prior  to  liis  age.  The 
univerfal  tradition  among  the  ancients  is,  that  they  were  firft 
imported  into  Greece  by  Cadmus  tlie  Phoenician ,  who,  ac- 
cording to  the  common  fyftcm  of  chronology,  was  cotempora- 
ry  with  Jofliua  •,  according  to  Sir  Ifaac  Newton's  fyftcm,  co- 
temporary  with  king  David.  J  As  the  Phoenicians  are  not 
known  to  have  been  the  inventors  of  any  art  or  fciencc,  though, 
by  means  of  their  extcnfive  commerce,  they  propagated  ihc 
Uifcoveries  made  by  other  nations,  the  moft  j^robablc  and  nat- 

ura! 


94 


KISE  -AKD    PROGRESS         Lect.VIL 


tiral  acccunt  of  the  origin  of  alphnbetical  cbara(!^ers  is,  tliat  they 
took  rife  in  Egypt,  the  fiill  civilized  kingdom  of  \vlnch  we 
have  any  authentic  accountr.,  end  the  great  fource  of  arts  and' 
polity  among  the  ancients.  In  that  country,  the  favourite  ftudy 
of  hieroglyphical  chara£lers,  had  dire6led  much  attention  to 
the  art  of  Writing.  Their  hieroglyphics  arc  known  to  have 
been  intermixed  with  abbreviated  fymbols,  and  arbitrary  marks ; 
■'rhcncc,  at  lad,  they  Caught  the  idea  of  contriving  marks,  not 
for  things  merely,  but  for  founds.  Accordingly,  Plato  (in  Phce- 
dro)  exprefsly  attributes  the  invention  of  letters  to  Theuth,  thr  , 
J!gyptian,  who  is  fuppofed  to  have  been  the  Hermes,  or  Mer- 
cury, of  the  Greeks.  Cadmus  himfelf,  though  he  palTed  fron> 
Phoenicia  to  Greecs,  yet  is  affirmed,  by  feveral  of  the  ancient9> 
to-  have  been  originally  af  Thebes  in  Egypt.  Mofl  probably, 
Mofes  car/ied  with  him  the  Egyptian  letters  into  the  land  of 
Canaan ;  and  there  being  adopted  by  the  Phoenicians,  who  in- 
habited part  of  chat  country,  they  were  tranfmitted  into  Greece. 
The  alphabet  which  Cadmus  brought  into  Greece  was  im- 
perfeiil:,  and  is  faid  to  have  contained  only  fixteen  letters.  The 
reft  were  afterwards  a<ided,  according  as  figns  for  proper 
founds  were  found  to  be  wanting.  It  is  curious  to  obferve, 
that  the  letters  which  we  ufc  at  this  day,  can  be  traced  back 
to  this  vej:y  alphabet  of  Cadmus.  'J'he  Roman  alphabet, 
wliich  obtains  with  us,  and  with  moft  of  the  European  na- 
tions, is  plainly  formed  on  the  Greek,  with  a  few  variations. 
And  nil  learned  men  obferve,  that  the  Greek  chara61ers,  efpee- 
jidly  according  to  the  manner  in  v.'hich  they  are  formed  in  the 
cldeft  infcriptions,  have  a  remarkable  conibrmity  with  the  Pie- 
brew  or  Samaritan  characters,  >vhich,  it  is  agreed,  are  the  fame 
with  the  Pliocnician.,  or  the  alphabet  of  Cadmus.  Invert  the 
Greek  characters  from  left  to  right,  according  to  tie  Phceniciaw 
and  Hebrew  manner  of  Writing,  and  they  are  the  fame.  Befidcs 
the  conformity  of  figure,  the  names  or  denominations  of  the  lei- 
ter«,  alpha,  beta,  gamma,  &c.  and  the  order  in  which  the  let- 
ters are  arranged,  in  all  the  feveral  alphabets,  Phoenician,  He- 
brew, Greek,  and  Roman,  agree  fo  much,  as  amounts  to  a  de- 
monftration,  that  tliey  were  all  derived  originally  from  the  fame 
fource.  An  invention  fo  ufcful  and  fimple  was  greedily  re- 
ceived by  mankind,  and  propagated  with  fpeed  and  facility 
tiirough  many  different  nations. 

The 


Lect.VIL  of   writing.  95 

The  letters  were,  originally,  written  from  the  rij^ht  hand  to- 
wards the  lett  i  that  is,  in  a  contrary  order  to  wliat  wc  now 
praclife.  This  manner  of  Writing  obtained  among  the  Af- 
fyrians,  Phoenicians,  Arabiansj  and  Hebrews  ;  and  from  fomc 
very  old  infci'iptions,  appears  to  have  obtained  alfo  among  the 
Greeks.  Afterwards,  the  Greeks  adopted  a  new  method,  writ-, 
ing  their  lines  alternately  from  the  right  to  the  left,  aiid  from 
the  left  to  the  light,  which  v/as  called  BouJI  raphe  don  ,-  or,  writ- 
ing after  the  maimer  in  which  oxen  plough  the  ground.  0£ 
this,  feveral  fpecimens  Hill  remain  j  particularly,  the  infcrip- 
tion  on  the  famous  Sigxan  monument ;  and  down  to  the  days  of 
Solon,  the  legiOator  of  Athens,  this  continued  to  be  the  com- 
mon method  of  Writing.  At  length,  the  motion  from  the  left 
hand  to  the  ri^rht  beinjr  found  more  natural  and  commodious, 
the  praQic-e  of  Writing,  in  this  dirediion,  prevailed  throughout 
all  the  countries  of  Europe. 

AVriting  was  long  a  kind  of  engraving.  Pillars,  and  tables 
of  Hone,  were  firfl  employed  for  this  purpofe,  and  afterw^ards 
plates  of  the  fofter  metals,  fueh  as  lead.  In  proportion  as* 
Writing'  became  more  common,  lighter  and  more  portable  fub- 
ftances  were  employed.  The  leaves,  and  the  bark  of  oertairi 
trees,  were  ufed  in  fome  countries  ;  and  in  others,  tablets  of 
wood,  covered  with  a  thin  coat  of  foft  wax,  on  which  the  im- 
preffion  was  made  with  a  flylus  of  iron.  In  later  times,  the 
hides  of  animals,  propei-ly  prepared  and  poli'hcd  into  parchment, 
were  the  mod  common  materials.  Our  prefent  method  of 
writing  on  paper,  is  an  invention  of  no  greater  antiquity  tlian 
the  fourteenth  century. 

Thus  I  have  given  fome  account  of  the  Progrefs  of  thefc 
two  great  arts,  Speech  and  Writing  j  by  which  men's  thoughts 
are  communicated,  and  the  foundation  laid  for  all  knov,'ledge 
and  improvement.  Let  us  conclude  the  fubjed:,  with  com- 
paring, in  a  few  words,  fpoken  Language,  and  written  Lan- 
guage i  or  words  uttered  in  our  hearing,  with  vv^ords  reprc- 
fcnted  to  the  eye ;  where  wc  ihall  find  feveral  advantages  and 
•difadvantages  to  be  balanced  on  both  fides. 

The  advantages  of  V/riting  above  Speech  are,  that  Writing 
is  biith  more  extenfive,  and  a  more  permanent  method  of  com- 
Biunication.     More  extenfive,  us  it  is  not  confined  within  the 

narrow 


95  RISE  AND  PROGRESS,  Src        Lect.VII. 

narrow  circle  of  thofe  who  hear  our  words,  but,  by  means  of 
written  charad^ers,  we  can  fend  our  thoughts  abroad,  and  pro- 
pagate them  through  the  world  ;  we  can  lift  our  voice,  fo 
as  to  fpeak  to  the  mod  diftant  regions  of  the  earth.  More 
permanent  alfo;  as  it  prolongs  this  voice  to  the  mod  dillant 
ages  ;  it  gives  us  the  means  of  recording  our  fentiments  to 
futurity,  and  of  perpetuating  the  in(lru(5t:ive  memory  of  pad 
tranfactions.  It  likewife  affords  this  advantage  to  fuch  as  read 
above  fuch  as  hear,  that,  having  the  written  characters  before 
iheir  eyes,  they  can  arreft  the  fenfe  of  the  writer.  They  can 
paufe,  and  refolve,  and  compare,  at  their  Icifure,  one  pafTage 
with  another  :  whereas,  the  voice  is  fugitive  and  pafTmg  :  you 
muft  catch  the  words  the  monient  they  are  uttered,  or  you  lofe 
them  forever. 

But  ahhough  thefe  be  fo  great  advantages  of  written  Lan- 
•guage,  .that  Speech,  without  Writing,  would  have  been  very 
inadequate  for  the  inftrudtion  of  mankind ;  yet  we  muft  not 
forget  to  obferve,  that  fpoken  Language  has  a  great  fuperiority 
over  written  Language,  in  point  of  energy  or  force.  The 
voice  of  the  living  fpeakcr,  makes  an  imprefEon  on  the  mind, 
much  ftronger  than  can  be  made  by  the  perufal  of  any  Writing. 
The  tones  of  voice,  the  looks  and  gefture,  which  accompany 
difcourfe,  and  which  no  Writing  can  convey,  render  difcourfe, 
when  it  is  well  managed,  infinitely  more  clear,  and  more  ex- 
preflive,  than  the  moft  accurate  Writing.  For  tones,  looks, 
and  geftures,  are  natural  interpreters  of  the  fentiments  of  the 
mind.  They  remove  ambiguities  j  they  enforce  imprefhons; 
they  operate  on  us  by  n)eans  of  fympathy,  which  is  one  of  the 
moft  powerful  inftrunients  of  perfuafion.  Our  fympathy  is 
always  awakened  more,  by  hearing  the  fpeaker,  than  by  read- 
ing his  works  in  our  clofet.  Hence,  though  Writing  may  an- 
swer the  purpofes  of  mere  inftruQion,  yet  all  the  great  and 
high  efforts  of  eloquence  mult  be  made,  by  means  of  fpoken, 
not  of  written,  Language, 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        VIIL 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 

/TlFTER  having  given  an  account  of  the  Rife  and 
Progrefs  of  Language,  I  proceed  to  treat  of  its  Stru£lure,  or  of 
General  Grammar.  The  Strudlure  of  Language  is  extremely 
artiiiclal ;  and  there  are  few  fciences,  in  which  a  deeper^  or 
more  refined  logic,  is  employed,  than  in  Grammar.  It  is  apt 
to  be  flighted  by  fupcrficial  thinkers  as  belonging  to  thofe  ru- 
diments of  knowledge,  which  were  inculcated  upon  us  in  our 
carlieft  youth.  But  what  was  then  inculcated  before  wc  could 
comprehend  its  principles,  would  abundantly  repay  our  fludy 
in  maturcr  years  ;  and  to  the  ignorance  of  it,  muft  be  attribut- 
ed many  of  thofe  fundamental  defed^s  which  appear  in  writing. 

Few  authors  have  written  with  philofophical  accuracy  on 
the  principles  of  General  Grammar ;  and,  what  is  more  to  be 
regretted,  fewer  ftill  have  thought  of  applying  thofe  principles 
to  the  Englifh  Language.  While  the  French  Tongue  has  long 
been  an  obje£l  of  attention  to  many  able  and  ingenious  writ- 
ers of  that  nation,  who  have  confider  its  conftruilion,  and  de- 
termined its  propriety  with  great  accuracy,  the  Genius  and 
Grammar  of  the  Englilh,  to  the  reproach  of  the  country,  have 
not  been  ftudied  with  equal  care,  or  afcertained  with  the  fame 
precifion.  Attempts  have  been  made,  indeed,  of  late,  towards 
fupplyiiig  this  dcfecl  ;  and  fome  able  writers  have  entered  on 
the  fubjc£l  ;  but  much  remains  yet  to  be  done. 

I  do  not  propofe  to  give  any  fyllem,  either  of  Grammar  in 
general,  or  of  Englifli  Grammar  in  particular.  A  miimte  dif- 
culFion  of  the  niceties  of  Language  would  carry  us  too  much, 
off  from  other  objects,  which  demand  our  attention  in  this 
courfe  of  LeiSlurcs.  But  I  propofe  to  give  a  general  view  of  the 
chief  principles  relating  to  this  fubjcdt,  ia  obfervations  on  th« 
O  (everal 


98  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.    Lect.  VIII. 

fcveral  parts  of  which  Speech  or  Language  is  compofcd ;  re- 
marking, as  I  go  along,  the  peculiarities  of  our  own  Tongue. 
After  wliich,  I  fliall  make  fome  more  particular  remarks  on  the 
Genius  of  the  Englifh  Language. 

The  firfl:  thing  to  be  confideretl  is,  the  divifion  of  the  fevcr- 
al  parts  of  Speech.  The  eiTential  parts  of  Speech  are  the  fame 
in  all  Languages.  There  muft  always  be  fome  words  which 
denote  the  names  of  objedts,  or  mark  the  fubjeft  of  difcourfe  ; 
other  M'ords,  which  denote  the  qualities  of  thofc  objedls,  and 
exprefs  what  we  affirm  concerning  them  -,  and  other  words, 
which  point  out  their  connexions  and  relations.  Hence,  fub- 
ftantives,  pronouns,  adjciliv^es,  verbs,  prepofitionSjand  conjunc- 
tions, mufl  necefTariiy  be  found  in  all  Languages.  The  moft 
fimple  and  comprehenfivc  divifion  of  the  parts  of  Speech  is,  in- 
to fubflantives,  attributives,  and  connectives.*  Subftantives, 
are  all  the  words  which  exprefs  the  names  of  obje<Sls,  or  the 
fubje£ls  of  difcourfe ;  attributives,  are  all  the  words  which  ex- 
prefs any  attribute,  property,  or  a£lion  of  the  former  ;  connec- 
tives, are  what  exprefs  the  connexions,  relations,  and  depen- 
dencies, which  take  place  among  them.  The  common  gram- 
matical divifion  of  Speech  into  eight  parts  ;  nouns,  pronouns, 
verbs,  participles,  adverbs,  prepofitions,  interje61:ions,  and  con- 
jundlions,  is  not  very  logical,  as  might  be  eafily  fhewn  ;  as  it 
comprehends,  under  the  general  term  of  nouns,  both  fubflan- 
tives  and  adjC(fl:lves,  wliich  are  parts  of  Speech  generically  and 
eflentially  diflinft  ;  while  it  makes  a  feparate  part  of  Speech  of 
participles,  which  are  no  other  th^n  verbal  adjc£lives.  How- 
ever, as  thefe  are  the  terms  to  which  our  ears  have  been  moft 
familiarized,  and,  as  an  exaft  logical  divifion  is  of  no  great  con- 
fequence  to  our  prefent  purpofe,  it  will  be  better  to  make 
ufe  of  thefe  known  terms  than  of  any  other. 

We 

*  Qiiintilian  informs  us,  that  tliis  was  the  noft  ancient  divifion.  "Tuni 
«'  vidtbit  quot  &  quK  fuut  partes  orationis.  Q^aiiqu.<m  cle  numero  parum 
»*  cuuvenit.  Veterts  enim.qiionnn  fiicrant  Ari^ocelcs  acque  ThtodiiSlcs,  ver- 
"  lia  modo,  &  nomina,  tk  conviiflicmts  tradidcrunt.  Videlicet,  quod  in  vcrbii 
"  vim  fernionis,  !n  nuniinibiis  niareriam,  (quia  alteruni  eft  quod  loquiinus,  al- 
•'  terum  de  quo  loquimur)  in  convindliouibus  auteni  complexuni  eoruni  ciTe 
"  judicaruut ;  quas  ccvniuniTtiont's  a  plerifque  dici  fcio  ;  led  ha; c  vidttur  er 
«'  uvviicf/^j  magis  projiria  tranflatio.  Pauiatim  a  philcp-'iiliicis  acinaxim^  a 
♦'  floicis,  innflus  <  It  niuneru^.,  ac  primuin  couvinclio'jibus  trucuii  adjecfhi ;  port 
•J  prxpofttioncs ;  ncininibus,  appeliatio,  deinde  proiiomen  ;  dciude  iQidum  Vcr- 
*'  bo  participium;  ipiisvetbis,  advtrbia,"  Lib.  1.  e^p.  ir. 


Lect.VIII.    structure  of  language.  99 

We  are  naturally  led  to  begin  with  the  confideration  of 
fubft'Sntive  nouns,  which  are  the  foundation  of  all  Grammar, 
and  may  be  confidered  as  the  moll  ancient  part  of  Speech. 
For,  afTuredly,  as  foon  as  men  liad  got  beyond  fimple  inter- 
jeOions,  or  exclamations  of  pafTion,  and  began  to  communi- 
cate themfelves  by  difcourfe,  they  would  be  under  a  neeelTity 
of  afligning  names  to  the  obje£ls  they  faw  around  them,  which, 
in  Grammatical  Language,  is  called,  the  Invention  of  fubflan- 
tive  nouns.*  And  here,  at  our  lirft  fetting  out,  fomewhat  ca- 
rious occurs.  The  individual  objects  which  furround  us,  are 
infinite  in  number.  A  favage,  wherever  he  looked,  beheld  for- 
efts  and  trees.  To  give  feparate  names  to  every  one  of  thofe 
•trees,  would  have  been  an  endlefs  and  impracticable  under- 
taking. His  firfl  obje£l:  was,  to  give  a  name  to  that  particular 
tree,  whofe  fruit  relieved  his  hunger,  or  whofe  fliade  protefled 
him  from  the  fun.  But  obferving,  that  though  other  trees  were 
diftinguifhed  from  this  by  peculiar  qualities  of  fize  or  appear- 
ance, yet,  that  they  alfo  agreed  and  rcfembled  one  another,  in 
certain  common  qualities,  fuch  as  fpringing  from  a  root,  and 
bearing  branches  and  leaves,  he  formed,  in  his  mind,  fome  gen- 
eral idea  of  thofe  common  qualities,  and  ranging  all  that  pof- 

fcffed 

*  I  Jo  not  mean  to  afTcrt,  that  among  all  nations,  the  fird  invented  ^vords 
were  finipleand  regular  fuhftantive  nouns.  Nothing  is  more  dithcult  and  un- 
certain, than  to  al'ccrtain  the  prtcife  fleps  by  -which  men  proceeded  in  the 
formation  of  Lanj^uaj^e.  Names  for  objects  muft,  doubtiefs,  liave  arifcn  in 
the  mofl:  early  ftage  of  Speech.  But.  it  is  probable,  as  the  leaiutd  author  of 
the  Treatife,  On  the  Orij^'m  and  Fro^rcfs  of  Lrr/ifrua^r,  has  fliown  (vol.  i.  p. 
.?7^.  395  )  that,  among  levcral  favage  tribes,  fome  ot  the  firll  articulate  founds 
tliat  were  formed,  denoted  a  whole  ftntenee  rather  than  the  name  of  a  par- 
ticular obje(5l ;  conveying  fr.nie  information,  or  cxprefTmg  fome  delires  or  fears 
fuitcd  to  tlie  circumftances  in  which  that  tribe  was  placed,  or  relating  to  the 
bulinefs  thev  had  moft  freq\icnt  occafion  to  carry  on  ;  as,  the  lion  is  coming, 
the  river  is  fwclling,  &c.  Many  of  their  Tuft  words,  it  ie  hkcwife  probable, 
were  not  hm[)lc  fubrtantivc  nouna,  but  fubflantivcs,  accompanied  with  fmnc  of 
thofe  attributes,  in  conjun<ftion  with  which  they  were  moll  frequently  accuf- 
tomed  to  behold  tliem ;  as,  the  great  bear,  the  little  hut,  the  wound  made  by 
the  hatchet,  &;c.  Of  all  which<  the  Author  produces  inftancesfrom  feveral  of 
the  American  Language*  ;  and  it  is,  undoubtedly,  fuitable  to  the  natural  courfc 
of  the  operations  of  the  human  mind,  thus  to  begin  with  particulars  the  moft 
obvious  to  fenfc,  and  to  proceed,  from  thi-fe,  to  more  general  exprciTions.  Ke 
likewifc  obferves,  that  the  words  of  tliofc  primitive  tongues  are  far  from  be- 
ing, as  wc  might  fuppofe  them,  rude  and  Hiort,  and  crowded  with  eonfotiants  : 
btit,  on  the  contrary,   are,  for  the   moft  part,  long  words,  and  full  of  v«iwels. 

This  is  the  confcquencc  of  their  being  formed  upon  the  natural  founds  which 
the  voice  utters  with  moft  cafe,  a  httic  varied  and  diftinguillied  by  articula- 
tion ;  and  he  fhov  s  this  to  hold,  in  iat\,  among  moft  of  the  barbarous  Lau- 
guagts  which  arc  kjiown, 


TOO        ^  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.    Lfxt.  VIII. 

fcfled  them  under  one  clafs  of  objefls,  he  called  that  whole 
clafs,  a  tree.  Longer  experience  taught  him  to  fubdivide  this 
genus  into  the  feveral  fpecies  of  oak,  pine,  afli,  and  the  reft, 
according  as  his  obfervation  extended  to  the  feveial  qualities  in 
which  thefe  trees  agreed  or  differed. 

But,  ilill  he  made  ufe  only  of  general  terms  in  Speech.  For 
the  oak,  the  pine  and  the  alh,  were  names  of  whole  claffes  of 
objedls  ;  each  of  winch  included  an  immenfe  number  of  undif- 
tinguilhed  individuals.  Here  then  it  appears,  that  though  the 
formation  of  abltra£l-,  or  general  conceptions,  is  fuppofedtobe 
a  diificult  operation  of  the  mind-,  fuch  conceptions  mull  have 
entered  into  the  very  fir  ft  formation  of  Language.  For,  if  we 
except  only  the  proper  names  of  perfons,  fuch  as  Csefar^ 
John,  Peter,  all  the  other  fubftantive  nouns  which  we  employ 
in  difcourfe,  are  the  names,  not  of  individual  objet^s,  but  of 
very  extenfive  genera,  or  fpecies  of  objects ;  as,  man,  lion,  houfe^ 
river,  &c.  We  are  not,  however  to  imagine,  that  this  inven- 
tion of  general,  or  abftracl  terms,  requires  any  great  exertion  of 
metaphyfical  capacity  ;  for,  by  whatever  fteps  the  mind  pro- 
ceeds in  it,  it  is  certam,  that,  when  men  have  once  obferved 
refemblances  among  obje^ls,  they  are  naturally  inclined  to. 
call  all  thofe  which  relemble  one  another,  by  one  common 
name  ;  and,  of  courfe,  to  clafs  them  under  one  fpecies.  We 
may  daily  obferve  this  praGifed  by  children  in  their  firft  at- 
tempts towards  acquiring  Language. 

But  now,  after  Language  had  proceeded  as  far  as  I  have 
clefcribed  the  notification  which  it  made  of  objects  was  llili 
very  imperfeft  :  for,  when  one  mentioned  to  another  in  dif- 
courfe, any  fubftantive  noun  ;  fuch  as,  man,  lion,  or  tree,  how 
was  it  to  be  known  which  man,  which  lion,  or  which  tree  he 
meant,  among  the  many  comprehended  under  one  name  ? 
Here  occurs  a  very  curious,  and  a  very  ufeful  contrivance  for 
fpecifying  the  individurd  obje£l  intended,  by  means  of  thatpart 
of  Speech,  called  the  article. 

The  force  of  the  article  confifts  in  pointing  or  fingling 
out  from  the  common  mafs,  the  individual  of  which  we  mean 
to  fpeak.  In  Englifli,  we  have  two  articles,  a  and  the  j  a  is 
more  general  and  unlimited  j  the  n\oxt  definite  and  fpecial. 
A  is  much  the  fame  with  oney  and  marks  only  any  one  indi- 
vidual 


Lect.VIII.    structure  of  language.  toi 

vidual  of  n  fpecies  ;  that  individual  being  either  unknown,  or 
left  undetevmined  ;  as,  a  lion,  a  king.  The^  which  pofleffes 
more^  properly  the  force  of  the  article,  afcertains  fome 
known  or  determined  individual  of  the  fpecies  \  as,  the  lion, 
the  king. 

Articles  are  words  of  great  ufe  in  Speech.  In  fomc  Lan- 
guages, however,  they  are  not  found.  The  Greeks  have  but 
one  article,  m't«>,  which  anfv/ers  to  our  definite,  or  proper 
article,  the.  They  have  no  word  which  anfwers  to  our  ar- 
ticle a ;  but  they  fupply  its  place  by  the  abfence  of  their  arti- 
cle :  Thus,  B-iffiAeuc  (ignifies,  a  king  ;  h  Baa/Aivf,  the  king.  The 
Latins  have  no  article.  In  the  room  of  it,  they  employ  pro- 
nouns ;  as,  hie,  ille,  ifte,  for  pointing  out  the  obje£ls  which 
they  want  to  diflinguifli.  "  Nofter  fcrmo,"  fiiys  Quintillian, 
**  articulos  non  defiderat,  ideoque  in  alias  partes  orationis 
"  fparguntur."  This,  however,  appears  to  me  a  defeat  in  the 
Latin  Tongue  ;  as  articles  contribute  much  to  the  clcarnefs  and 
preclfion  of  Language. 

In  order  to  illullrate  this,  remark,  what  difference  there  is  in 
the  meaning  of  the  following  exprefiions  in  Englilh,  depending 
wholly  on  the  different  employment  of  the  articles :  "  The  fon  of 
"  a  king.  The  fon  of  the  king.  A  fon  of  the  king's."  Each  of 
thefe  three  plirafes  has  an  entirely  different  meaning,  which  I 
need  not  explain,  becaufe  any  one  who  underftands  the  Lan- 
guage, conceives  it  clearly  at  firfl  hearing,  through  the  different 
application  of  the  article  a  and  the.  Whereas,  inLatin,  "Filius 
"  regis,"  is  wholly  undetermined  ;  and  to  explain,  in  which  of 
thefe  three  fcnfes  it  is  to  be  underilood,  for  it  may  bear  any  of 
them,  a  circumlocution  of  feveral  words  mull  be  ufed.  In  the  fame 
manner,  "  Are  you  a  king  r"  "  Are  you  the  king  ?"  are  quef- 
tions  of  quite  different  import ;  which,  however,  are  confound- 
ed together  in  the  Latin  phrafc,  "  efne  tu  rex  r"  "  Thou  art  ft 
"  man,"  is  a  very  general  and  harmlefs  pofition  j  but,  **  Thou  art 
"  the  man,"  is  an  affertion  capable,  we  know,  of  ilriking  terror 
and  remorfe  into  the  heai^t.  Thefe  obfervations  illuRrate  the 
force  and  importance  of  articles  :  And,  at  the  fame  time,  I 
gladly  lay  hold  of  any  opportunity  of  fhewing  the  advantages 
of  our  own  Language, 

Bcfides 


IC2  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.    Lect-VIH. 

Befidcs  this  quality  of  being  particularifed  by  the  article, 
three  atlections  belong  to  fubftantive  nouns,  number,  gen- 
der, and  cafe,  which  require  our  confideration. 

Numbc;:  diftinguifhes  them  as  one,  or  many,  of  the  fiimc 
kind,  called  the  Singular  and  Plural  j  a  diftincSlion  found  in  all 
Languages,  and  which  muft,  indeed,  have  been  coeval  with  the 
very  infancy  of  Language ;  as  there  were  few  things  which 
men  had  more  frequent  occafion  to  exprefs,  tlian  the  ditlerence 
between  one  and  many.  For  the  greater  facility  of  exprefTmg 
it,  it  has,  in  all  Languages,  been  marked  by  fome  variation 
made  upon  the  fubftantive  noun  ;  as  we  fee,  in  Englifli,  our 
plural  is  commonly  formed  by  the  addition  of  the  letter  S.  In 
the  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  fome  other  ancient  Languages,  we  find 
not  only  a  plural,  but  a  dual  number ;  the  rife  of  which  may 
very  naturally  be  accounted  for,  from  feparate  terms^of  num- 
bering not  being  yet  invented,  and  one,  two,  and  many,  being 
all,  or  at  leafl:,  the  chief  numeral  diilinclions  which  men,  at 
firft,  had  any  occafion  to  take  notice  of. 

Gender,  is  an  affetlion  of  fubftantive  nouns,  which  will  lead 
us  into  more  difcuftion  than  number.  Gender,  being  founded 
on  the  diftinciion  of  the  two  fexes,  it  is  plain,  that  in  a  proper 
fenfe,  it  can  only  find  place  in  thenamqs  of  living  creatures,  which 
admit  the  diftiniflion  of  male  and  female  ;  and,  therefore,  can  be 
ranged  underthe  mafculineor  feminine  genders.  All  other  fub- 
ftantive nouns  ought  to  belong  to  what  grammarians  call,  the  neu- 
ter gender,  which  is  meant  to  imply  the  negation  of  either  fex. 
But,  with  refpe6l  to  this  diftribution,  fomewhat  fmgular  hath 
obtained  in  the  Struflure  of  Language.  For,  in  correfpondence 
to  that  diftin£lion  of  male  and  female  fex,  which  runs  through 
all  the  clafies  of  animals,  men  have,  in  moft  Languages, 
ranked  a  great  number  of  inanimate  obje£^s  alfo,  under  the  like 
difttnQions  of  mafculine  and  feminine.  Thus  we  find  it,  both 
in  the  Greek  and  Latin  Tongues.  Gladius^  a  fword,  for  in- 
ftance,  is  mafculine ;  fagiita^  an  arrow,  is  feminine ;  and  this 
affignation  of  fex  to  inanimate  objeils,  this  diftiuQion  of  them 
into  mafculine  and  feminine,  appears  often  to  be  entirely  ca- 
pricious ;  derived  from  no  other  principle  than  the  cafual  Struc- 
ture of  the  Language,  which  refers  to  a  certain  gender,  words 
cf  2  certain  termination.     In  the  Greek  and  Latin,  however,  all 

inanimate 


Lect.VIII.    structure  of  language.  103 

inanimate  objefbs  are  not  diftributed  into  mafculinc  and  femi- 
nine ;  but  many  of  them  are  alfo  clafTed,  where  all  of  them 
ought  to  have  been,  under  the  neuter  gender ;  as,  templum^  a 
church  j  ffdile,  a  feat. 

But  the  Genius  of  the  French  and  Italian  Tongues  differs,  in 
this  refpetl,  from  the  Greek  and  Latin.  In  the  French  and 
Italian,  from  whatever  caufe  it  has  happened,  fo  it  is,  that  the 
neuter  gender  is  wholly  unknown,  and  that  all  their  names  of 
inanimate  obje£ls  are  put  upon  the  fame  footing  with  living 
creatures  j  and  dillvibuted,  without  exception,  into  mafculine 
and  feminine.  The  French  have  two  articles,  the  mafculine 
Uj  and  the  feminine  la  ;  and  one  or  other  of  thefe  is  prefixed 
to  all  fubftantive  nouns  in  the  Language,  to  denote  their  gen- 
der. The  Italians  make  the  fame  univerfal  ufe  of  their  arti- 
cles il  and  lo,  for  the  mafculine  ;  and  la,  for  the  feminine. 

In  the  Englifh  Language,  it  is  remarkable  that  there  obtains  a 
peculiarity  quite  oppofite.  In^the  French  and  Italian,  there  is 
no  neuter  gender.  In  the  Englifh,  when  we  ufe  common  dif- 
courfe,  all  fubftantive  nouns,  that  are  not  names  of  living 
creatures,  are  neuter,  without  exception.  He,  fie,  and  //,  are 
the  marks  of  the  three  genders  ;  and  we  always  ufe  it,  in 
fpeaking  of  any  objeiSt  where  there  is  no  fex,  or  where  the  fex 
is  not  known.  The  Englifli  is,  perhaps,  the  only  Language 
in  the  known  world  (except  the  Chincfe,  which  is  faid  to  agree 
with  it  in  this  particular)  where  the  diftindlion  of  gender  is 
properly  and  philofophically  applied  in  the  ufe  of  words,  and 
confined,  as  it  ought  to  be,  to  mark  the  real  diftin^lions  of 
male  and  female. 

Hence  arifes  a  very  great  and  fignal  advantage  of  the  Eng- 
lifli Tongue,  which  it  is  of  confcquence  to  remark.*  Though 
in  common  difcourfe,  as  I  have  already  obferved,  we  employ 
only  the  proper  and  literal  diftintSlion  of  fexes  ;  yet  the  genius 
of  the  Language  permits  us,  whenever  it  will  add  beauty  to  our 
difcourfe,  to  make  the  names  of  inanimate  objcdls  mafculine 
or  feminine  in  a  metaphorical  fenfe  ;  and  when  we  do  fo,  we 
are  underftood  to  quit  the  literal  ftyle,  and  to  ufe  one  of  the 
figures  of  difcourfe. 

For 

•  The  following  obfcrvations  on  the  metaphorical  ufe  of  genders,  ja  the 
Englilli  Language,  arc  taken  from  Mr.  Harris's  Hermes, 


104  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.     Lect-VIII. 

For  liiflaiicc ;  if  I  am  fpeakiiicj  of  virtue,  in  the  courfe  of 
ordinary  converfation,  or  of  Itrict  rcafoning,  I  refer  the  word 
to  no  fex  or  gender  •,  I  fay,  "  Virtue  is  its  own  reward  -,"  or, 
*'  it  is  the  law  of  our  nature."  But  If  I  choofe  to  rife  into  a 
higher  tone  •,  if  I  feek  to  cmbelHlh  and  animate  my  difcourfe, 
I  give  a  fex  to  virtue  ;  I  fay,  "  She  defcends  from  Heaven  •," 
"  (lie  alone  confers  true  honour  upon  man  ;"  "  her  gifts  are 
**  the  only  durable  rewards"  By  this  means,  we  have  it  in 
our  power  to  vary  our  flyle  at  pleafure.  By  making  a  very 
flight  alteration,  we  can  pevfonify  any  obje6t  that  we  choofe  to 
introduce  with  dignity  j  and  by  this  change  of  manner,  we  give 
warning,  that  we  are  pafTing  from  the  flriCl  and  logical,  to  the 
ornamented  and  rhetorical  Ityle. 

This  is  an  advantage  which,  not  only  every  poet,  but  every 
good  writer  and  fpeaker  iii  profe,  is,  on  many  occafions,  glad 
to  lay  hold  of,  and  improve  ;  and  it  is  an  advantage  peculiar  to 
our  Tongue ;  no  other  Language  pofrefTes  it.  For,  in  other 
Languages,  every  word  has  one  fixed  gender,  mafculine,  femi- 
nine, or  neuter,  which  can,  upon  any  occafion,  be  changed  ; 
a^m,  for  inftance,  in  Greek,  virtus  in  Latin,  and  la  vertu  in 
French,  are  uniformly  feminine.  She,  muft  always  be  the  pro- 
noun anfwering  to  the  word,  \rhether  you  be  writing  in  poe- 
try or  profe,  whetlier  you  be  ufing  the  ftyle  of  reafoning,  or  that 
of  declamation :  whereas,  in  Englifh,  we  can  either  exprefs 
ourfelves  with  the  philofophical  accuracy  of  giving  no  gender 
to  things  inanimate  \  or  by  giving  them  gender,  and  transform- 
ing them  into  perfons,  we  adapt  them  to  the  llyle  of  poetry, 
and,  when  it  is  proper,  we  enliven  profe. 

It  deferves  to  be  further  i-emnrked  on  this  fubjeil,  that,  when 
we  employ  that  liberty  which  our  Language  allows,  of  afcrib- 
Ing  fex  to  any  inanimate  objecl:,  we  have  not,  however,  the  lib- 
erty of  making  it  what  gender  we  pleafe,  mafculine  or  femi- 
nine -,  but  are,  in  general,  fubje£led  to  fome  rule  of  gender 
■which  the  currency  of  Language  has  fixed  to  that  obje£t.  The 
foundation  of  that  rule  is  imagined,  by  Mr.  Harris,  in  his 
**  Philofophical  Inquiry  into  the  Principles  of  Grammar,"  to 
be  laid  in  a  certain  dittant  refcmblance,  or  analogy,  to  the  nat- 
ural dillinclion  of  the  two  fexes. 

Thus, 


Lect.VIII.     structure  OF  LANGUAGE.  105. 

Thus,  accorJing  to  him,  we  commonly  give  the  mafculine 
gender  to  thcfe  fubflantive  nouns  ufcd  figuratively,  which  are 
confpicuous  for  the  attributes  of  imparting,  or  communicating  ; 
which  are  by  nature  ftrong  and  efficacious,  either  to  good  or 
€vil  ;  or  which  have  a  claim  to  fome  eminence,  whether  lauda- 
ble or  not.  Thofe  again,  he  imagines,  to  be  generally  made 
feminine,  wliich  are  confpicuous  for  the  attributes  of  contain- 
ing, and  of  bringing  forth  ;  which  have  more  of  the  paflive 
in  their  nature,  than  the  a6live  ;  which  are  peculiarly  beauti- 
ful, or  amiable  ;  or  which  have  refpejfl  to  fuch  excefles  as  are 
rather  feminine  than  mafcidine.  Upon  thefe  principles  he 
takes  notice,  that  the  fun  is  always  put  in  the  mafculine  gen- 
der with  us,  the  moon  in  the  feminine,  as  being  the  receptacle 
of  the  fun's  light.  The  earth  is,  univerfally,  feminine.  A 
fliip,  a  country,  a  city,  are  like  wife  made  feminine,  as  receivers, 
or  containers.  God,  in  all  Languages,  is  mafculine.  Time, 
■we  make  mafculine,  on  account  of  its  mighty  efHcacy  ;  virtue, 
feminine,  from  its  beauty,  and  its  being  the  obje£l  of  love- 
Fortune  is  always  feminine.  Mr.  Harris  imagines,  that  the 
reafons  v/hich  determine  the  gender  of  fuch  capital  words  as 
thefe,  hold  in  mod  other  Languages,  as  well  as  the  Englifli. 
This,  however,  appears  doubtful.  A  variety  of  circumftances, 
which  feem  cafual  to  us,  becaufe  we  cannot  reduce  them  to  prin- 
ciples, muft,  unqueflionably,  have  influenced  the  original  for- 
mation of  Languages ;  and  in  no  article  whatever  does  Language 
appear  to  have  been  more  capricious,  and  to  have  proceeded 
lefs  according  to  fixed  rule,  than  in  the  impofition  of  gen- 
der upon  things  inanimate  ;  efpecially  among  fuch  nations 
as  have  applied  the  diltin6lion  of  mafculine  and  feminine  to  all 
fubltantive  nouns. 

Having  difcuflcd  gender,  I  proceed,  next,  to  another  remark- 
able peculiarity  of  fubftantive  nouns, which  in  the  (lyle  of  Gram- 
mar, is  called  their  declenfion  by  cafes.  Let  us,  firlt,  confider 
what  cafes  fignify.  In  order  to  underftand  this,  it  is  necefPary  to 
obfcrve,  that,  after  men  had  given  names  to  external  objedis, 
had  particularized  them  by  means  of  the  article,  and  diftinguifli- 
ed  them  by  number  and  gender,  (lill  their  Language  remained 
extremely  imperfetft,  lill  rhey  ha<l  devifed  fome  method  of  ex- 
frelTiug  the  relations  v, hicli  thofe  objedl^  bore,  one  towards 
P  another. 


ic6  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.     Lect.  VUI. 

•another.  They  would  find  it  of  little  ufe  to  have  a  name  for 
man,  lion,  tree,  river,  without  being  able,  at  the  fame  time,  to 
fignify  how  thefe  ftood  with  refpedl  to  each  other  ;  whether, 
as  approaching  to,  receding  from,  joined  with,  and  the  like. 
Indeed,'the  relations  which  objects  bear  to  one  another,  arc 
immenfely  numerous  ;  and  therefore,  to  devife  names  for  them 
all,  mufl  have  been  among  the  laft  and  moil  difficult  refine- 
ments of  Language.  But,  in  its  mod  early  periods,  it  was 
abfolutely  necefiUry  to  exprefs,  in  fome  way  or  other,  fuch  rela- 
tions as  were  moil  important,  and  as  occurred  moil  frequently 
in  common  Speech.  Hence  the  genitive,  dative,  and  ablative 
cafes  of  nouns,  which  exprefs  the  noun  itfelf,  together  with 
thofe  relations  of^  to^ffomy  ivith^  and  b^  ;  the  relations  which, 
of  all  others,  we  have  the  mofl  frequent  occafion  to  mention. 
The  proper  idea  then  of  cafes  in  declenfion,  is  no  other  than 
an  exprelhon  of  the  ftate,  or  relation,  which. one  obje(fl  bears 
to  another,  denoted  by  fome  variation  made  upon  the  name 
of  that  obje£l  ;  moil  commonly  in  the  final  letters,  and  by 
fome  Languages,  in  the  initial. 

All  Languages,  however,  do  not  agree  in  this  mode.of  expref- 
fion.  The  Greek,  Latin,  and  feveral  other  Languages,  ufe  de- 
clenfion. The  Englill),  French,  and  Italian,  do  not ;  or,  at  moil, 
ufe  it  very  imperfecliy.  In  place  of  the  variations  of  cafes,  thtfe 
modern  Tongues  exprefs  the  relations  of  objects,  by  means  of 
the  words  called  prepofitions,  which  are  the  names  of  thofe 
relations,  prefixed  to  the  name  of  the  object.  Englllli  nouns 
have  no  cafe  whatever,  except  a  fort  of  genitive,  commonly 
formed  by  the  addition  of  the  letter  s  to  the  noun  ;  as  when  we 
fay  "Dryden's  Poems,"  meaning  the  Poems  of  Dryden.  Our 
perfonal  pronouns  have  alfo  a  cafe,  which  anfwers  to  the  accu- 
fative  of  the  Latin,  I,  me ,-  hey  him  ,-  nvhoy  ivhom.  There  is  noth- 
ing, then,  or  at  leall  very  little,  in  the  Grammar  of  our  Lan- 
guage, which  correfponds  to  declenfion  in  the  Antient  Lan- 
guages. 

Two  queflions,  refpe£ting  this  fubje6l,  may  be  put.  Firfl, 
Which  of  thefe  methods  of  expreifing  relations,  whether  that 
by  declenfion,  or  that  by  prepofitions,  was  the  moil  ancient 
ufage  in  Language  ?  And  next.  Which  of  them  has  the  befl 
effect  ?  Both  methods,  it  is  plain,  are  the  fimie  as  to  the  fenfe, 
and  dilrer  only  in  form.     For  the  fignificancy  of  the  Roman 

Language 


UcT.VIII.    STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  107 

Language  would  not  have  been  altered,  though  the  nouns,  hkc 
ours;  had  been  without  cafes,  provided  they  had  employed 
prepofitions  ;  and  though,  to  exprefs  a  difciple  of  Plato,  they 
had  f:id,  "  Difcipulus  de  Plato,"  like  the  modern  Italians,  in 
pi-.ce  of  "  Difcipulus  Platonis." 

Now;  with  refpedl  to  the  antiquity  of  cafes,  although  they 
m  ly,  Oil  firft  view,  feem  to  conllitute  a  more  artificial  method 
than  tiie  other,  of  denoting  relations,  yet  there  are  flrong  rea- 
fons  for  t'linklng  that  this  was  the  earliefl  method  pra6lifed  by 
men.  We  find,  in  faft,  that  declenfions  and  cafes  are  ufed  In 
moft  of  v.'hat  are  called  the  Mother  Tongues,  or  Original  Lan- 
guages, as  well  as  in  the  Greek  and  Latin.  And  a  very  natm-- 
al  and  fatisfying  account  can  be  given  why  this  ufage  fliould 
have  early  obiained.  Relations  are  the  moll  abflra^l:  and  met- 
aphyfical  ideas  of  any  which  men  have  occafion  to  form,  when 
they  are  conhdered  by  themfelves,  and  feparated  from  the  re- 
lated obje(^.  It  would  puzzle  any  man,  as  has  well  been  ob- 
ferved  by  an  author  on  this  fubje£l,  to  give  a  difbindl:  account 
of  what  is  meant  by  fuch  a  word  as  ofoxfrom^  when  it  (lands 
by  itfelf,  and  to  explain  all  that  may  be  included  under  it.  The 
firft  rude  ipventors  of  Language,  tiiercfore,  would  not,  for  a  long 
while,  arrive  at  fuch  general  terms.  In  place  of  confidering  any 
relation  in  the  abitradl,  and  devifing  a  name  for  ii:,  they  would 
inuch  more  eafily  conceive  it  in  conjun£tion  vi'ith  a  particu- 
lar objeft ;  and  they  would  exprefs  their  conceptions  of 
it,  by  varying  the  name  of  that  obje6l  through  all  the  differ- 
ent cafes  ;  hovumsy  of  a  man  ;  hominiy  to  a  man  j  hamine,  with 
a  man,  &c. 

But  though  this  method  of  declonfion  was,  probably,  the  only 
method  which  men  employed,  at  firft,  for  denoting  relations, 
yet,  in  progrefs  of  time,  many  other  relations  being  obferved, 
befides  thofe  which  are  figniPed  by  the  cafes  of  nouns,  and 
men  alfo  becoming  more  capable  of  general  and  metaphyfical 
ideas,  feparate  names  were  gradually  invented  for  all  the  rela- 
tions which  occurred,  forming  that  part  of  Speech  which  we 
now  call  prepofitions.  Prepofitions,  being  once  introduced, 
they  were  found  to  be  capable  of  fupplying  the  place  of  cafes, 
by  being  prefixed  to  the  nominative  of  the  noun.  HenCe,  it 
came  to  pafs,  that  as  nations  were  intcrmi);cd  by  migraclcns  and 

conqueils, 


io8  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.    Lect.  VIII. 

conqucfls,and  were  obliged  to  learn  and  adopt  the  Languages  of 
one  another,  prepofitions  fuppianteJ  the  ufe  of  cafes  and  de- 
clenfions.  When  the  Italian  Tongue,  for  inflance,  fprungout 
of  the  Roman,  it  was  found  more  eafy  and  fimple,  by  the  Goth- 
ic nations,  to  accommodate  a  few  prepofitions  to  the  nomina- 
tive of  every  noun,  and  to  fay,  di  Roma,  al  Romay  di  Carthago, 
al  Carthago,  than  to  remember  all  the  variety  of  terminations, 
Rom.t,  Romam,  Carth'iglnls,  Carthaginnn,  which  the  ufe  of  de- 
clenfions  required  in  the  ancient  nouns.  By  this  progrefs  we 
can  give  a  natural  account  how  nouns,  in  our  modern  Tongues^ 
come  to  be  fo  void  of  declenfion  :  a  progrefs  v.hich  is  fully  il- 
luftrated  in  Dr.  Adam  Smith's  ingenious  DilTertation  on  the 
Formation  of  Languages. 

With  regard  to  the  other  qucfblon  on  this  fubjc^l:,  Wliich  of 
thefe  two  methods  is  of  the  greateft  utility  and  beauty  ?  vi'C 
ihall  find  advantages  and  difadvantages  to  be  balanced  on  both 
fides.  There  is  no  doubt  that,  by  abolifliing  cafes,  we  have 
rendered  the  Stru£lurc  of  Modem  Languages  more  fimple.  AVe 
have  difembarrafled  it  of  all  the  intricacy  v/hich  arofe'  from  the 
different  forms  of  declenfion,  of  which  the  Romans  had  no 
fewer  than  five ;  and  from  all  the  irregularities  in  thefe  feveral 
declenfions.  We  have  thereby  rendered  our  Languages  more 
eafy  to  be  acquired,  and  Icfs  fubje6l  to  the  perplexity  of  rulcs^ 
But,  though  the  fimpliciiy  and  eafe  of  Language  be  great  and 
efiimable  advantages,  yet  there  are  alfo  fuch  difadvantages 
attending  the  modern  method,  as  leave  the  balance,  on  the 
v/hole,  doubtful,  or  rather  incline  it  to  the  fide  of  antiquity. 

For,  in  the  firft  place,  by  our  conRant  ufe  of  prepofitions 
for  expreffing  the  relations  of  things,  we  have  filled  Language 
with  a  multitude  of  thofe  little  words,  which  are  eternally  oc- 
curring in  every  fentence,  and  may  be  thought  thereby  to  have 
encumbered  Speech,  by  an  addition  of  terms  ;  and  by  render- 
ing it  more  prolix,  to  have  enervated  its  force.  In  the  fecond 
place,  we  have  certainly  rendei-ed  the  found  of  Language  lefs 
agreeable  to  the  ear,  by  depriving  it  of  that  variety  and  fwect- 
iiefs,  which  arofe  from  the  length  of  words,  and  the  change  of 
terminations,  occafioned  by  the  cafes  in  the  Greek  and  Latin. 
But,  in  the  third  place,  the  mofl  m^aterlal  difadvantage  is,  that, 
by  this  abolition  of  cafes,  and  by  a  fimilar  alteration,  of  which 

1  xm 


Lect.  VIII.    STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  109 

I  am  to  fpeak  in  the  next  Le^lure,  In  the  conjugation  of  verbs, 
we  have  deprived  ourfelvcs  of  that  liberty  of  tranfpofition  in 
the  arrangement  of  words,  which  the  Ancient  Languages 
enjoyed. 

In  the  Ancient  Tongues,  as  I  formerly  obferved,  the  differ- 
ent terminations,  produced  by  declenfion  and  conjugation, 
pointed  Out  tlie  reference  of  tlie  feveral  words  of  a  fentence  to 
one  another,  without  the  aid  of  juxtapofition  ;  fuffered  them 
to  be  placed,  without  ambiguity,  in  whatever  order  was  moft 
fuited  to  give  emphafis  to  the  meaning,  or  harmony  to  the 
found.  liut  now,  having  none  of  thofe  marks  of  relation  in- 
corporated with  the  words  themfelves,  we  have  no  other  way 
left  us,  of  fliov/ing  v/hat  vv-ovds  in  a  fentence  arc  moil  clofely 
connedled  in  meaning,  than  that  of  placing  them  clofe  by  one 
another  in  the  period.  The  meaning  of  the  fentence  is  brought 
out  in  feparate  members  and  portions  ;  it  is  broken  down  and 
divided.  Whereas  the  flru£ture  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
fentences,  by  the  government  of  their  nouns  and  verbs,  prefent- 
ed  the  meaning  fo  interwoven  and  compounded  in  all  its  parts, 
as  to  make  us  perceive  it  in  one  united  view.  Tiie  clofing 
words  of  the  period  afcertained  the  relation  of  each  member 
to  another  j  and  all  that  ought  to  be  counseled  in  our  idea,  ap- 
peared connedled  in  the  expreffion.  Hence,  more  brevity,  more 
vivacity,  more  force.  That  luggage  of  particles,  (as  an  ingenious 
Author  happily  exprefles  it)  which  m'C  are  obliged  always  to 
carry  along  with  us,  both  clegs  llyle,  and  enfeebles  fcntiraent.* 

Pronouns 

*  "The  various  terminations  of  t!ic  f:iine  word,  whether  verb  or  noun,  arc 
always  conceived  to  be  more  intimately  counofled  with  the  term  which  they 
fcrvc  to  lengtlien,  than  the  additional,  dctaclied,  and  in  thtmltlves  inlignifi- 
ranc  particles,  which  we  are  olillgcd  to  employ  as  coiineclives  to  our  fignifi- 
cant  words.  Our  method  gives  almofl  the  fame  cxpofure,  to  the  one  as  to  the 
other,  making  the  fignilicant  parts,  and  the  iuiigniiicant,  equally  confpicuous; 
theirs,  much  oftener  links,  as  it  were,  the  former  into  the  latter,  at  once  pre-* 
ferving  their  ufe  and  hiding  their  weaknefs.  Our  Modern  Languages  may,  in 
this  refpeift,  be  compared  to  the  art  of  the  carpenter,  in  its  rudefl  ftate.; 
when  the  union  of  the  materials,  employed  by  the  artif.m,  could  be  clTeifted 
only  by  the  help  of  thofe  extern*!  and  coarfe  implements,  pins,  nails,  an  I 
cramps.  The  Ancient  1-anguagcs  rcf<  nible  the  fame  art  in  its  niofl  improved 
fVate,  after  the  invention  of  dovetail  joints,  grooves,  and  mortices  ;  when  tlius 
all  the  principal  jundlions  arc  elleCted,  by  forming  properly,  the  cxtremitic-  <  r 
terminations  of  tlie  pieces  to  be  joined.  For  by  means  of  thcfe,  the  union  ot 
the  parts  is  reiuicrcd  clofer ;  while  tiiat  by  which  that  union  is  produced,  is 
Icarctly  perceivable."  The  Philoiophy  of  Rhetoric,  by  Dr.  C:'inphell,  voL 
ii.  p.  4U. 


IIP  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.    Lect.VIIL 

Pronouns  are  the  clafs  of  words  mod  nearly  related  to 
fubflanlive  nouns-,  being,  as  the  name  imports,  reprefentatives, 
or  iubflitutes,  of  nouns.  /,  thou^  hcy  JJjSy  and  /V,  are  no  other 
than  an  abridged  way  of  naming  the  perfons,  or  objeds,  with 
which  we  liave  immediate  intcrcourfe,  or  to  which  we  are 
obliged  frequently  to  refer  in  difcourfe.  Accordingly,  they  are 
fubjetl  to  the  fame  modifications  witli  fubftantive  nouns,  of 
number,  gender,  and  cafe.  Only,  with  refpeft  to  gender, 
we  may  obfcrve,  that  the  pronouns  of  the  firfl  and  fecond  per- 
fon,  as  they  are  called,  /  and  thou,  do  not  appear  to  have  had  the 
tliftinelions  of  gender  given  them  in  any  Language  ;  for  this 
plain  reafon,  that,  as  they  always  refer  to  perfons  who  are 
prefent  to  each  other,  when  they  fpeak,  their  fex  muft  appear, 
and  therefore  needs  not  be  marked  by  a  mafculine  or  feminine 
pronoun.  But,  as  the  third  perfon  may  be  abfent,  or  unknown, 
the  diflinc^ion  of  gender  there  becomes  neceflary  ;  and  accord- 
ingly, in  Englifli,  it  hath  all  the  three  genders  belonging  to 
}t  ;  hcyjlje,  it.  As  to  cafes,  even  thofe  Languages  which  have 
dropped  them  in  fubftantive  nouns,  fometimes  retain  more  of 
them  in  pronouns,  for  the  fake  of  the  greater  readinefs  in  ex- 
prefung  relations  ;  as  pi'onouns  are  words  of  fuch  frequent 
occurrence  in  difcourfe.  in  Englifli,  mofl.  of  our  grammarians 
hold  the  perfonal  pronouns  to  have  two  cafes,  befides  tl:ie 
nominative  J  a  genitive,  and  accnfative  ;  I,  miuey  me ;  ihoUy 
thine y  thee;   he,  his,  him  ;   nvho,  ivhofe,  nvhcni. 

In  the  faft  ftage  of  Speech,  it  is  pjx)babje  that  the  places  of 
thofe  pronouns  were  fupplied,  by  pointing  to  the  objedl  when 
prefent,  and  naming  it  when  abfent.  For  one  can  hardly  think 
that  pronouns  were  of  early  invention  ;  as  they  are  words  of 
fuch  a  particular  and  artificial  nature.  /,  thotiy  he,  it,  it  is  to 
be  obferved,  are  not  names  peculiar  to  any  fingle  object,  but 
fo  very  general,  that  they  may  be  applied  to  all  perfons,  or  ob- 
je£ls,  whatever,  in  certain  circumftances.  Is,  is  the  moft  gen- 
eral term  that  can  poihbly  be  conceived,  as  it  may  ftand  for 
any  one  thing  in  the  univerfe,  pf  which  we  fpeak.  At  the 
fame  time,  thefe  pronouns  have  this  quality,  that,  in  the  cir- 
cumftances in  which  they  are  applied,  they  never  denote  more 
than  one  precife  individual  ;  which  they  afcertain  and  fpecify, 
much  in  the  fame  manner,  as  is  done  by  the  article.     So  that 

pronouns 


Lect.VIII.    structure  OF  LANGUAGE.  in 

r 

pronouns  are,  at  once,  the  mofl  general,  and  the  mofl:  particu- 
lar words  in  Language.  They  are  commonly  the  mod  irregu- 
lar and  troublefome  words  to  the  learner,  in  the  Grammar  of 
all  Tongues  ;  as  being  the  words  moll  in  common  uie,  and 
fubje(Sted  thereby  to  the  greatefl;  varieties. 

Adjectives,  or  terms  of  quality,  fuch  as,  gren^i  littky  bbckf 
•whitey  yours,  ours,  are  the  plainefl:  and  fimpleft  of  all  that  clafs 
of  words  wliich  arc  termed  attributive.  They  are  found  in 
all  Languages  ;  and,  in  all  Languages,  muft  have  been  very 
early  invented  ;  as  objeCls  could  not  be  dillinguiflied  from  each 
other,  nor  any  intercourfe  be  carried  on  concerning  them,  till 
once  names  were  given  to  their  different  qualities. 

I  have  nothing  to  obferve  in  relation  to  them,  except  that 
Cngularity  which  attends  them  in  the  Greek  and  Latin,  of 
having  the  fiune  form  given  them  with  fubflantive  nouns  j  be- 
ing declined,  like  them,  by  cafes,  and  fubje£led  to  the  like  dif- 
tin£lions  of  number  and  gender.  Hence  it  has  happened,  that 
grammarians  have  made  them  to  belong  to  the  fame  part  of 
Speech,  and  divided  the  noun  into  fubftantive  and  adjeclive ; 
an  arrangement,  founded  more  on  attention  to  the  external 
form  of  words,  than  to  their  nature  and  force.  For  adjedtives 
or  terms  of  quality,  have  not,  by  their  nature,  the  lead  refem- 
blance  to  fubflantive  nouns,  as  they  never  exprefs  any  thing 
which  can  poffibly  fubfill  by  itfelf  j  which  is  the  very  efiencc 
of  the  fubftantive  noun.  They  are,  indeed,  more  akin  to 
verbs,  which,  like  tl\cni,  exprefs  the  attribute  of  fome  fubllance. 

It  may,  at  firft  view,  appear  fomewhat  odd  and  fantaftic, 
that  adje£lives  fliould  in  thefe  Ancient  Languages,  have  alTuni- 
ed  fo  much  the  form  of  fubftantlves ;  fmce  neither  number, 
nor  gendei",  nor  cafes,  nor  relations,  have  any  thing  to  do,  in 
a  proper  fenfe,  with  mere  qualities,  fuch  as,  good  or  great,  foft 
or  hard.  And  yet  bonus,  and  magnus,  and  taier,  have  their 
fingular  and  plural,  their  mafculine  and  feminine,  their  geni- 
tives and  datives,  like  any  of  the  names  of  fubHances,  or  per- 
fons.  But  this  can  be  accounted  for,  from  the  genius  of  thofc 
Tongues.  They  avoided,  as  much  as  pofTible,  conHde^-ing 
qualities  feparately,  or  in  the  abilrafl.  They  made  them'  a 
part  or  appendage,  of  the  fubllance  which  they  ferved  to  dif- 
dnguilh  i  they  made  the  adje(^iYe  depend  oa  its  fubHantlve,  and 

refemblc 


112        Structure  of  lai^guage.   Llct.viii. 

refemble  it  in  termination,  in  number,  and  gender,  in  order 
tliat  the  two  might  ccalcfce  tlic  more  intimately,  and  be 
joined  in  the  form  of  expreffion,  as  they  were  in  the  nature  of 
things.  The  liberty  of  tranfpofition,  too,  which  thofe  Lan- 
guages indulged,  required  fucha  method  as  this  to  be  followed. 
For,  allowing  the  related  words  of  a  fcntence  to  be  placed  at 
a  diftance  from  each  other,  it  required  the  relation  of  adje£lives 
to  their  px^oper  fubflantives  to  be  pointed  out,  by  fuch  fimilar 
circumftances  of  form  and  termination,  as,  according  to  the 
grammatical  ftyle,  fnould  lliow  their  concordance.  When  I  fay 
in  Englifn,  the  "  Beautiful  wife  of  a  brave  man,"  the  juxtapo- 
fition  of  the  words  prevents  all  ambiguity.  But  when  I  L\y  m 
Latin,  "  Formofa  fortis  viri  uxor  -,"  it  is  only  the  agreement,  in 
gender,  number,  and  cafe,  of  the  adjc^iivc  "fonnofjy"  which 
is  the  firffc  word  of  the  fentence,  \\  ith  the  fubftuutivc  "  uxor" 
which  is  the  la  ft  word  that  declares  the  meaning' 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        IX. 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.    ENGLISH  TONGUE, 

KJF  the  whole  clafs  of  words  that  are  called  attribu- 
tive, indeed,  of  all  the  parts  of  Speech,  the  moft  complex,  by- 
far,  is  the  verb.  It  is  chiefly  in  this  part  of  Speech,  that  the 
fubtile  and  profound  metaphyfic  of  Language  appears  ;  and, 
therefore,  examining  the  nature  and  different  variations  of  the 
verb,  there  might  be  room  for  ample  difculTion.  But  as  I  am 
fcnfible  that  fuch  grammatical  difcufhons,  when  they  are  pur- 
fued  far,  become  intricate  and  obfcure,  I  fhall  avoid  dwelling 
any  longer  on  this  fubjccl  than  feems  abfolutely  necefTary. 
The  verb  is  fo  far  of  the  fame  nature  with  the  adje£live, 
that  it  exprefTes,  like  it,  an  attribute,  or  propriety,  of  fome  per- 
fon  or  thing.  But  it  does  more  than  this.  For,  in  all  verbs,- 
in  every  Language,  there  are  no  lefs  than  three  things  implied 
at  once ;  the  attribute  of  fome  fubftantive,  an  affirmation  con- 
cerning that  attribute,  and  time.  Thus,  when  I  fay,  "  the  fun 
*'  Ihineih;"  fliining,  is  the  atti-ibute  afcribcd  to  the  fun  ^  thepref- 
ent  time  is  marked  ;  and  an  affirmation  is  included,  that  this 
property  of  (lilning  belongs,  at  tliat  time,  to  the  fun.  The  par- 
ticiple, "  fliining,"  is  merely  an  adjective,  which  denotes  an  at- 
tribute, or  property,  and  alfo  exprefTes  time  ;  but  carries  no  af- 
firmation. The  infinitive  mood,  "to  fliine,"  may  be  called 
tJie  name  of  the  verb  ;  it  carries  neither  time  nor  affirmation  ; 
but  fimply  evprefles  that  attribute,  a£lion,  or  ftate  of  things, 
which  is  to  be  the  fubjecl  of  the  other  moods  and  tenfes. 
Hence  the  infinitive  is  often  akin  to  a  fubflantive  noun  ;  and, 
both  in  Englifh  and  Latin,  is  fometimes  conftru£led  as  fuch. 
^s,  "  Scire  tuum  nihil  eft."  "  Dulce  et  decorum  eft  pro  patria 
**  movl"  An:],  In  Englifli,  in  the  fame  manner.  "  To  write 
Q  "well 


114  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.      Lect.IX. 

**  well  is  difficult ;  to  f peak  eloquently  is  flill  more  difficult.'* 
But  as,  through  all  tlie  other  tenfes  and  moods,  the  aihrmatloii 
runs,  and  is  eflential  to  them ;  "  the  fun  Ihincth,  was  fliining, 
*'  (hone,  will  fhlne,  would  have  flione,"  &c.  the  aflirmatioa 
feems  to  be  that  which  chiefly  dlllinguiflics  the  verb  from  the 
other  parts  of  Speech,  and  gives  it  its  moft  confpicuous  power. 
Hence  there  can  be  no  fentence  or  complete  propofition,  with- 
out a  verb  either  expreffed  or  implied.  For,  whenever  we  fpeak, 
we  5i]ways  mean  to  affert,  that  fomething  is,  or  is  not ;  and  the 
word  which  carries  this  aflertion,  or  affirmation,  is  a  verb. 
From  this  fort  of  eminence  belonging  to  it,  this  part  of  Speech 
hath  received  its  name ;  verb,  from  the  Latin,  verbum,  or  //jf 
nvordy  by  way  of  diftin6lion. 

Verbs,  therefore,  from  their  importance  and  neceffity  in 
Speech,  mull  have  been  coeval  with  men's  firlt  attempts  to- 
wards the  formation  of  Language :  though,  indeed,  it  mull 
have  been  the  work  of  long  time,  to  rear  them  up  to  that  accu- 
rate and  complex  ftruclure,  which  they  now  pollefs.  It  feems 
very  probable,  as  Dr.  Smith  has  fuggelled,  that  the  radical  verb, 
or  the  fird  form  of  it,  in  moll  Languages,  would  be  what  wc 
now  call,  the  Lnperfonal  Verb.  *' It  rains;  it  thunders;  it  is 
•'  light ;  it  is  agreeable  ;"  and  the  like,  as  this  is  the  very  fimpleft 
form  of  the  verb,  and  merely  affirms  the  exiltence  of  an  event, 
or  of  a  ilate  of  things.  By  degrees,  after  pronouns  were 
invented,  fuch  verbs  became  perfonal,  and  were  branched  out 
into  all  the  variety  of  tenfes  and  moods. 

The  tenfes  of  the  verb  are  contrived  to  imply  the  feveral  dif- 
tindlions  of  time.  Of  thefe,  1  mud  take  fome  notice,  in  order 
to  fhow  the  admirable  accuracy  with  which  Language  is  con- 
ftru<^led.  We  think,  commonly,  of  no  more  than  the  three 
great  dlvifions  of  time,  into  the  pall,  the  prefent,  and  the  fu- 
ture :  and  we  might  imagine,  that  if  verbs  had  been  fo  con- 
trived, as  limply  to  exprefs  thefe,  no  more  was  needful.  But 
Language  proceeds  with  much  greater  fubtilty.  It  fplits  time 
into  its  feveral  moments.  It  confiders  time  as  never  ff:anding 
ftill,  but  always  flowing  ;  things  paft,  as  more  or  lefs  perfectly 
completed  ;  and  things  future,  as  more  or  lefs  remote,  by  dif- 
ferent gradations.  lience  the  great  variety  of  teafes  in  moll 
Tongues. 

The 


Lect.IX.      structure  of  language.  iij 

The  prefent  may,  indeed,  be  always  confidered  as  one  indi- 
vidble  point,  fufceptlble  of  no  variety.  "I  write,  or,  I  am 
"  writing  ;  fcrlbo"  But  it  is  not  fo  with  the  paft.  There  is 
no  language  fo  poor,  but  it  hath  two  or  three  tenfes  to  exprefs 
the  varieties  of  it.  Ours  hath  no  fewer  than  four.  i.  A  paft 
a£lion  may  be  confidered  as  left  unfmiflied  ;  which  makes  the 
imperfedt  tenfe,  "I  was  writing;  fcrihebam."  2.  As  juil  now 
finiflied.  This  makes  the  proper  perfedl  tenfe,  which,  in  Eng- 
lifh,  is  always  expreffcd  by  the  help  of  the  auxiliary  verb,  "•  I 
"  have  written."  3.  It  may  be  confidered  as  finifhed  fome  time 
ago;  the  particular  time  left  indefinite.  "I  w rote ^  fcri/Jt  i^ 
which  may  either  fignify,  "I  wrote  yefterday,  or  I  Mrote.a 
"  twelvemonth  ago."  This  is  what  grammarians  call  an  abrift, 
or  indefinite  paft.  4.  It  may  be  confidered  as  finiflied  before 
fomething  elfe,  which  is  alfo  paft.  This  is  the  plufquamper- 
ftO:.  •*  I  had  written  ;  fcripjcram.  I  had  written  before  1  re- 
*•  ceived  his  letter." 

Here  wc  obfcrve  with  fome  pleafure,  that  we  have  an  advan- 
tage over  the  Latins,  who  have  only  three  varieties  upon  the  paft 
time.  They  have  no  proper  perfe£l  tenfe,  or  one  which  diftin- 
guifties  an  aclion  juft  now  finiflied,  from  an  action  that  was 
finiflied  fome  time  ago.  In  both  thefe  cafes,  they  muft  fay, 
^^fcripfi.^'  Though  there  be  a  manifeft  difference  in  the  tenfes, 
which  our  Language  exprcfl'es,  by  this  variation,  "  I  h^ve  writ- 
ten," meaning,  I  have  juft  now  finifhed  writing ;  and,"  I  wrote," 
meaning  at  fome  former  time,  fince  which,  other  things  have 
intervened.  This  difference  the  Romans  have  no  tenfe  to  ex- 
prefs ;  ajid,  therefore,  can  only  do  it  by  a  circumlocution. 

The  chief  varieties  in  the  future  time  arc  two  ;  a  firaplc  or 
indefinite  future  :  **  I  Ihall  write  \Jcribam  ."  and  a  future,  re- 
relating  to  fomething  elfe,  which  is  alfo  future.  "  I  fhall  liave 
**  written  ;  fcripfero"     1.  lliall  have  written  before  he  arrives.* 

Befides  tenfes,  or  the  power  of  exprefiing  time,  verbs  admit 
the  diftincSlion  of.  Voices,  as  they  are  called,  the  active  and  the 
paflivc  ;  according  as  the  affirmation  refpe6ts  fomething  that  is 
done,  or  fomething  that  is  fullered ;  "I  love,  or  I  am  loved.'* 

They 

•  On  tlic  tcnfcs  of  verbs,  Mr.  Harris's  Hermes  may  be  rr.nfulted,  by  I'nch  as 
defirc  to  fee  them  frr\itini/ed  with  metapliyfic.Tl  acriirary  ;  and  alfo,  the 
Treatifc  on  the  Ori-^iu  and  Progrcls  of  Language,  vol.  ii.  p.  125. 


ii6  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.      Lect.IX 

They  admit  alfo  the  diilinfllon  of  moods,  which  are  defxgned  to 
exprefs  the  affirmationj  whether  active  or  pafiive,  under  differ- 
ent forms.  The  indicative  mood,  for  inftance,  {imply  declares 
a  propofition,  "  I  write  ;  I  have  written  •,"  the  imperative  re- 
quires, comm.ands,  threatens,  "  write  thou ;  let  him  write." 
The  fubjunflive  exprefies  the  proportion  under  the  form  of  a 
condition,  or  in  fubordination  to  fome  other  thing,  to  which  a 
reference  is  made,  "  I  might  write,  I  could  write,  I  fliould  write, 
*' if  the  cafe  were  fo  and  fo."  This  manner  of  expreffing  an 
affirmation,  under  fo  many  different  forms,  together  alfo  with 
the  diflin6iion  of  the  three  perfons,  /,  thou  and  hvy  conflitutes 
what  is  called,  the  conjugation  of  verbs,  which  makes  fo  great 
a  part  of  the  Grammar  of  all  Languages. 

It  now  clearly  appears,  as  I  before  obferved,  that,  of  all  the  parts 
-cf  Speech,  verbs  are,  by  far,  the  molt  artificial  and  complex. 
Confider  only,  how  many  things  are  denoted  by  this  fingle  Lat- 
in word  "  amnvijfem,  I  would  have  loved."  Firfl,  The  perfon 
■-v.'ho  Ipeaks,  "  L"  Secondly,  An  attribute  or  a61ion  of  that  per- 
fon, "loving."  Thirdly,  An  affirmation  concerning  that  ac- 
tion. Fourthly,  The  paft  time  denoted  in  that  affirmation, 
*'  have  loved  :"  and,  Fifthly,  A  condition  on  which  the  allien  is- 
fufpended,  "would  have  loved."  It  appears  curious  and  re- 
markable, that  words  cf  this  complex  import,  and  with  more 
orlefs  of  this  artificial  flru^lure,  are  to  be  found,  as  far  as  we 
know,  in' all  Languages  of  the  world. 

Indeed,  the  form  of  conjugation,  or  the  manner  cf  expreffing 
all  thefe  varieties  in  the  verb,  difl'ers  gi"eat-ly  in  different  Tongues. 
Conjugation  is  efleemed-mofl  perfe£l  in  thofe  Languages  which 
by  varying  either  the  termination  or  the  initial  fyllable  cf  the 
verb,  exprefs  the  greatefl  number  of  important  circumflances, 
without  the  help  of  auxiliary  words.  In  the  Oriental  Tongues, 
the  verbs  are  faid  to  have  few  tenfes,  or  cxprcihons  of  time;  but 
then  their  moods  arc  fo  contrived,  as  to  exprefs  a  great  variety 
of  circumfcances  and  i-elations.  In  the  Hebrew,  for  indance, 
they  fay,  in  one  word,  without  the  help  of  any  auxiliaryj  not 
Cnly  "I  have  taught,"  but,  "  I  have  tauplit  cxadlly,  or  of- 
**  ten  ;  I  have  been  commanded  to  teach  •■,  J  liave  taught  my- 
^'  felf."    .The  Greek,  which  is  the  moll  perfec!^  of  all  the  known 

Tongues, 


Lect.IX.      structure  OF  LANGUAGE.  C117 

Tongues,  is  very  regular  a:id  complete  in  all  the  tenfes  and 
jTioods.  The  Latin  is  formed  on  the  fame  model,  but  more  im- 
perfe6l ;  efpecially  in  the  paiavc  voice,  which  forms  moil  of 
the  tenfes  by  the  help  of  the  auxiliary  verb  ^^funi." 

In  all  the  modern  European  Tongues,  conjugation  Is  very 
defedlive.  They  admit  few  varieties  in  the  termination  of  the 
verb  itfelf ;  but  have  almoft  conftant  recourfe  to  their  auxiliary 
verbs,  throughout  all  the  moods  and  tenfes,  both  active  and 
pafFive.  Language  has  undergone  a  change  in  conjugation, 
perfectly  fimilar  to  that  which,  I  jQiowed  in  the  laft  Lcfture, 
it  underwent  with  refpe£l  to  d^clenfion.  As  prepofitions,  pre- 
fixed to  the  noun,  fupcrfcded  the  ufe  of  cafes  ;  fo  the  two  great 
auxiliary  verbs,  to  have^  and  to  be,  wdth  thofe  other  auxiliaries 
which  we  ufe  in  Englifh,  do,  f jail,  ivUl,  may,  and  f«;?,  prefixed 
to  the  participle,  fuperfede,  in  a  great  menfure,  the  different 
terminations  of  moods  and  tenfes,  which  formed  the  ancient 
conjugations. 

The  alteration,  in  botli  cafes,  was  owing  to  the  fame  caufe, 
and  will  be  eafily  underftood,  from  refle6ling  on  what  was  for- 
merly obferved.  The  auxiliary  verbs  are,  like  prepofitions, 
words  of  a  general  and  abftradH  nature.  They  imply  the  dif- 
ferent modifications  of  fimple  exiftence,  confidered  alone,  and 
without  reference  to  any  particular  tiling.  In  the  early  (late 
of  Speech,  the  import  of  them  would  be  incorporated,  fo  to 
fpeak,  with  every  particular  verb  in  its  tenfes  and  moods,  long 
before  words  were  invented  for  denoting  fuch  abHracl  concep- 
tions of  exiftence,  alone,  and  by  themfelves.  But  after  thofc 
auxiliary  verbs  came,  in  the  progrefs  of  Language,  to  be 
invented  and  known,  and  to  have  tenfes  and  moods  given  to 
them  like  other  verbs  ;  it  was  found,  that  as  they  carried  in 
their  nature  the  force  of  that  aflirmation  which  difiinguifhes 
tlie  verb,  they  might  by  being  joined  with  the  participle  which 
gives  the  meaning  of  the  verb,  fupply  the  place  of  mofl  of  the 
moods  and  tenfes.  Hence,  as  the  Modern  Tongues  began  to 
rife  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient,  this  method  eftabliflied  it- 
lelf  in  the  new  formation  of  Speech.  Such  words,  for  inftance  j 
as  mu,  ivas,  have,  Jhall,  being  once  familiar,  it  appeared  more 
cafy  to  apply  thefe  to   any  verb  ^^■liatever  5  as,  /  om  loved ;  I 

•was 


irS  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.      Lect.IS. 

VMS  loved :  I  have  loved ;  than  to  remember  that  variety  of 
terminations  which  \Vere  requifitc  in  conjugating  the  ancient 
verbs,  amor,  amabar,  amavi.  Sec.  Two  or  three  varieties  only, 
in  the  termination  of  the  verb,  were  retained,  as  love,  lovedy 
loving ;  and  all  the  reft  were  dropt.  The  confequence,  how- 
ever, of  this  practice,  was  the  fame  as  that  of  abolifliing  de- 
clenuons.  It  rendered  Language  more  fimple  and  eafy  in  its 
ftruclure  ;  but  withal,  more  prolix,  and  lefs  graceful.  This 
finiflies  all  that  feemed  molt  nccciTary  to  be  obferved  with 
refpe£l  to  verbs. 

The  remaining  parts  of  Speech,  which  are  called  the  inde- 
clinable parts,  or  that  admit  of  no  variations,  will  not  detain 
us  long. 

Adverbs  are  the  firft  that  occur.  Thefe  form  a  very  numer- 
ous clafs  of  words  in  every  Language,  reducible,  in  general, 
to  the  head  of  attributives  j  as  they  ferve  to  modify,  or  to  de- 
note feme  circumftance  of  an  aclion,  or  of  a  quality,  relative 
to  its  time,  place,  order,  degree,  and  the  other  properties,  of 
it,  which  we  have  occafjon  to  fpecify.  They  are,  for  the 
moll  part,  no  more  than  an  abridged  mode  of  Speech,  exprefP 
ing,  by  one  v/ord,  what  might,  by  a  circumlocution,  be  refolved 
into  two  or  more  words  belonging. to  the  other  parts  of  Speech. 
"  Exceedingly,"  for  inftance,  is  the  fame  as,  "  in  a  high  degree-," 
**  bravely,"  the  fame  as,  "  with  bravery  or  valour  ;"  "  here," 
the  fame  as,  *'  in  this  place  j"  "  often,  and  feldom,"  the  fame 
as,  "  for  many  and  for  few  times  :"  and  fo  of  tlie  reft.  Hence, 
adverbs  may  be  conceived  as  of  lefs  necefhty,,  and  of  later  in- 
tro<lu6lion  into  the  fyftcm  of  Speech,  than  many  other  clafles 
of  words  ;  and,  accordingly,  the  great  body  of  them  are  deriv~ 
ed  from  other  words  formerly  eftabliflied  in  tlie  Language. 

Prepofitions  and  conjunctions,  arc  words  more  efTential  tch 
tlifcourfe  than  the  greateft  part  of  adverbs.  Thsy  farm  that 
clafs  of  words,  called  connedlives,  without  which  there  could 
be  no  Language  ;  ferving  to  exprefs  the  relations  which:  things^ 
bear  to  one  another,  their  mutual  influence,  dependencies,  andi 
coherence  ;  thereby  joining  words  together  into  intelligible  and 
fignificant  propofitlons.  Conjun£lions  are  generally  employed 
for  connecting  fentences,  or  members  of  fentences  ;  as,  atul, 
hecanjey  ahhoughy  and  the  like.     Prepofitions  are  employed  for 

connedling 


Lect.  IX.     STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  119 

conne£ting  words,  by  fliowing  the  relation  which  one  fubflan- 
tive  noun  bears  to  another  ;  as,  of.,  from,  to.,  above,  helov),  Scc- 
Of  the  force  of  tliefe  I  had  occafion  to  fpeak  before,  when 
treating  of  the  cafes  and  declenfions  of  fubllantive  nouns. 

It  is  abundantly  evident,  that  all  thefe  conne£live  particles 
mult  be  of  the  greatcft  ufe  in  Speech  ;  feeing  they  point  out 
the  relations  and  tranfitions  by  which  the  mind  pafTes  from  one 
idea  to  another.  They  are  the  foundations  of  all  rcafoning, 
which  is  no  other  thing  than  the  connexion  of  thoughts.  And, 
therefore,  though  among  barbarous  nations,  and  in  the  rude 
uncivilized  ages  of  the  world,  the  ftock  of  thefe  words  might 
be  fmall,  it  muft  always  have  increafed,  as  mankind  advanced 
in  the  arts  of  reafoning  and  refl-£tion.  The  more  any  nation 
is  improved  by  fcience,  and  the  more  perfe6l  their  Language 
becomes,  we  may  naturally  e:cpe6t,  that  it  will  abound  the  more 
with  connective  particles  ;  exprefling  relations  of  things,  and 
tranfitions  of  thought,  which  had  efcaped  a  grofler  view.  Ac- 
cordingly, no  tongue  is  fo  full  of  them  as  the  Greek,  in  confc- 
quence  of  the  acute  and  fubtile  genius  of  that  refined  people. 
\xx  every  Language,  much  of  the  beauty  and  ftrength  of  it  de- 
pends on  the  proper  ufe  of  conjundlions,  prepafitions,  and  thofe 
relative  pronouns,  which  alfo  ferve  the  fame  purpofe  of  con- 
necting the  different  parts  of  difcourfe.  It  is  the  right,  or 
wrong  management  of  thefe,  which  chiefly  makes  difcourfd 
appear  firm  and  compared,  or  disjointed  and  loofe ;  which 
caufes  it  to  march  with  a  fmooth  and  even  pace,  or  with 
gouty  and  hobbling  fteps. 

I  fliall  dwell  no  longer  on  the  general  conftruftion  of  Language. 
Allow  me,  only,  before  I  difmifs  the  fubje£l,  to  obferve,  that 
dry  and  intricate  as  it  may  fcem  to  fome,  it  is,  however,  of 
great  importance,  and  very  nearly  connected  with  the  philofo- 
phy  of  the  human  mind.  For,  if  Speech  be  the  vehicle,  or  in- 
terpreter of  the  conceptions  of  our  minds,  an  examination  of 
its  Strudlure  and  Progrefs  cannot  but  unfold  many  things  con- 
cerning the  nature  and  progrefs  of  our  conceptions  themfclves, 
and  the  o^ierations  of  our  faculties ;  a  fubjecl  that  is  always 
in(lru£live  to  man,  "  Nequifi,"  fays  Quintiiian,  an  author  of 
excellent  judgment,  "  nequis  tanquam  parva  faftidiat  gramma- 
*'  tices  clementa.  Non  quia  magn-jc  fit  opcrce  confonantes  a 
*'  vocalibus  difcernerc,  eafijuc  in  fcmivocaliurli  numerum,  mu« 

**  tarumque 


120  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.      Lect.L^. 

**  tarumque  partlrl,  fed  quia  interiora  velut  facri  hujus  adeunti- 
"  bus,  apparcbit  multa  rerum  fubtilitas,  qujc  noii  modo  acuere 
**  ingenia  puerilia,  fed  exerccre  altiflimam  quoque  eruditionem 
"  ac  fcicntiam  poffit."*      i.  4. 

Let  us  now  come  nearer  to  our  own  Language.  In  this, 
and  the  preceding  LciSture,  fome  obfervations  have  already 
been  made  on  its  Stru^ure.  But  it  is  proper,  that  we  fliould 
be  a  little  more  particular  in  the  examination  of  it. 

The  Language  which  is,  at  prefcnt,  fpoken  throughout 
Great  Britain,  is  neither  the  ancient  primitive  Speech  of  the 
ifland,  nor  derived  from  it ;  but  is  altogetlier  of  foreign  origin. 
The  Language  of  the  iirfl  inhabitants  of  our  ifland,  beyond 
doubt,  was  the  Celtic,  or  Gaelic,  common  to  them  with  Gaul  -, 
from  which  country,  it  appears,  by  many  circumftances,  that 
Great  Britain  was  peopled.  This  Celtic  Tongue,  which  is  faid 
to  be  very  exprefTive  and  copious,  and  is,  probably,  one  of  the 
mod  ancient  Languages  In  the  world,  obtained  once  in  mofl  of 
the  weftcrn  regions  of  Europe.  It  was  the  Language  of  Gaul, 
of  Great  Britain,  of  Ireland,  and,  very  probably,  of  Spain  alfo ; 
till,  in  the  courfe  of  thofe  revolutions,  which,  by  means  of  the 
conqucHs,  firft,  of  the  Romans,  and  afterwards,  of  the  north- 
ern nations,  changed  the  government.  Speech,  and,  in  a  man- 
ner, the  whole  face  of  Europe,  this  Tongue  M'as  gradually  ob- 
literated ',  and  now  fubfills  only  in  the  mountains  of  Wales, 
in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  and  among  the  wild  Irifli.  For 
the  Irifli,  the  Wellh,  and  the  Erfe,  arc  no  other  than  different 
dialects  of  the  fame  Tongue,  the  ancient  Celtic. 

This,  then,  was  the  Language  of  the  primitive  Britons,  the 
firfl  inhabitants,  that  we  know  of,  in  our  iflandl|  and  continu- 
ed fo  till  the  arrival  of  the  Saxons  In  England,  in  the  year  of 
cur  Lord  450  5  who,  having  conquered  the  Britons,  did  not 
intermix  with  them,  but  expelled  them  from  their  habitations, 
and  drove  them,  together  with  their  Language,  into  the  moun- 
tains of  Wales.  The  Saxons  were  one  of  thefe  northern  na- 
tions 

•  "Let  no  man  dcfpife,  as  inconfidcrahle,  the  elements  of  ,c;fammar,becaufe 
they  fecm  to  him  a  matter  of  fniall  confeqiiencc,  to  ihew  tlie  cJiftinAion  be- 
tween vowels  and  conlbnants,  and  to  divide  the  latter  into  liquids  and  mutes. 
But  they  who  penetrate  into  the  hincrmofl:  parts  of  this  temple  of  fcience, 
will  there  difcover  fuch  refinement  and  fubtilty  of  matter,  as  is  not  only 
proper  to  fl^arpen  the  underflandinjrs  of  young  men,  but  fufficient  to  give  CX- 
crcili;  for  the  raoft  prolound  knowledge  and  erudition." 


LectAX.        the  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  521 

tions  that  over-ran  Europe  ;  and  their  Tongue,  a  diaie£l  of  the 
Gothic  or  Teutonic,  altogether  dillind  from  the  Cehic,  laid 
the  foundation  of  the  prefent  Englifli  Tongue.  With  fome 
intermixture  of  Danilh,  a  Language,  probably,  from  the  fame 
root  with  the  Saxon,  it  continued  to  be  fpoken  throughout  the 
fouthern  part  of  the  ifland,  till  the  time  of  William  the  Con- 
queror. He  introduced  the  Norman  or  French  as  the  Lan- 
guage of  the  court,  which  made  a  confiderablc  change  in  the 
Spei'ch  of  the  nation  ;  and  the  English,  which  was  fpoken  after- 
wards, and  continues  to  be  fpoken  now,  is  a  mixture  of  the 
ancient  Saxon,  and  this  Norman  French,  together  with  fuch 
new  and  foreign  words  as  commerce  and  learning  have,  in 
progrefs  of  time,  gradually  introduced. 

The  hiftory  af  the  Engliih  Language,  can,  in  this  manner, 
be  clearly  traced.  The  Language  fpoken  in  the  low  countries 
of  Scotland,  is  now,  and  has  "been  for  many  centuries,  no  other 
than  a  dialed  of  the  Englifli.  How,  indeed,  or  by  what  fteps, 
the  ancient  Celtic  Tongue  came  to  be  banifhed  from  the  Low 
Country  in  Scotland,  and  to  make  its  retreat  into  the  Highlands 
and  Iflands,  cannot  be  fo  well  pointed  out,  as  how  the  like  revo- 
lution was  brought  about  in  England.  AVhether  the  fouthcrn- 
mofl  part  of  Scotland  was  once  fubje6t  to  the  Saxons,  and  form- 
ed a  part  of  the  kingdom  of  Northumberland  ;  or,  whether  the 
great  number  of  Englifli  exiles  that  retreated  *:to  Scotland,  up- 
on the  Norman  conquefl;,  and  upon  other  occafions,  introduced 
into  that  country  their  own  Language,  which  afterwards,  by  the 
mutual  intercourfe  of  the  two  nations,  prevailed  over  the  Celtic, 
are  uncertain  and  contefl:cd  point*,  the  difcuflion  of  which 
would  lead  us  too  far  from  our  fuhje£l. 

From  what  has  been  faid  it  appears,  that  the  Teutonic  dialc£l 
is  thebafisof  our  prefent  Speech.  It  has  been  imported  among  us, 
in  three  different  forms,  the  Saxon,  theDanifii,  and  the  Norman,- 
all  which  have  mingled  together  in  our  Language.  A  very 
great  number  of  our  words  too,  are  plainly  derived  from  the 
I^atin.  Thefc,  we  had  not  dire£lly  from  the  Latin,  but  mofl: 
of  them,  it  is  probable,  entered  into  our  Tongue  through  the 
channel  of  tliat  Norman  French,  which  William  the  Conquer^ 
or  introduced.  For,  as  the  Romans  had  long  been  in  full  pof- 
f.'jTion  of  Gaul,  the  Language  fpoken  iu  that  country,  when  it 
R  was 


ziz  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.       Lect.IX. 

was  invaded  by  the  Franks  and  Normans,  was  a  fort  of  corrupt- 
ed Latin,  mingled  with  Celtic,  to  which  was  given  the  name 
of  Roman^^e  :  and  as  the  Franks  and  Normans  did  not,  like  the 
Saxons  in  England,  expel  the  inhabitants,  but,  after  their  vic- 
tories, mingled  witli  them  •,  the  Language  of  the  country  became 
a  compound  of  the  Teutonic  dialect  imported  by  thefe  conquer- 
ors, and  of  the  former  corrupted  Latin.  Hence,  the  French  Lan- 
guage has  always  continued  to  have  a  very  confiderable  affinity 
with  the  Latin  j  and  heiice,  a  great  number  of  words  of  Latin 
origin,  which  were  in  ufe  among  the  Normans  in  France,  were 
introduced  into  our  Tongue  at  the  conquefl  ;  to  which,  indeed, 
many  have  fince  been  added,  dire<J^ly  from  the  Latin,  in  confe- 
quence  of  the  great  diflufion  of  Roman  literature  throughout 
all  Europe. 

From  the  influx  of  fo  many  flreams,  from  the  junction  of 
fo  many  diffimilar  parts,  it  naturally  follows,  that  the  Englifli, 
like  every  compounded  Language,  muffc  needs  be  fomewhat 
irregular.  We  cannot  expecl  from  it  that  correfpondencc  of 
parts,  that  complete  analogy  in  ftrudture,  which  may  be  found 
in  thofe  fimpler  Languages,  whicli  have  been  formed  in  a  man- 
ner within  themfelves,  and  built  on  one  foundation.  Hence, 
as  I  before  fiiowed,  it  has  but  fmall  rem.ains  of  conjugation  or 
declenfion  ;  and  its  fyntax  is  narrow,  as  there  are  few  marks 
in  the  words  tliemfelves  that  can  Ihow  their  relation  to  each 
other,  or,  in  the  grammatical  ftyle,  point  out  either  their  con- 
cordance, or  their  government,  in  the  fentence.  Our  words 
having  been  brought  to  us  from  feveral  different  regions,  flrag- 
gle,  if  we  may  fo  fpeak,  iifunder  from  each  other,  and  do  not 
coalefce  fo  naturally  in  the  ftru£ture  of  a  fentence,  as  the 
words  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  Tongues. 

But  thefe  difadvantages,  if  they  be  fuch,  of  a  compound 
Language,  are  balanced  by  other  advantages  that  attend  it  •, 
particularly,  by  the  number  and  variety  of  words  with  which 
fuch  a  Language  is  likely  to  be  enriched.  Few  Languages  are, 
in  faft,  more  copious  tlian  the  E-.glifli.  In  all  grave  fubje6ls, 
efpecially,  hiftorical,  critical,  political,  and  moral,  no  writer  has 
the  leaft  reafon  to  comphiin  of  the  barrennefs  of  our  Tongue. 
The  ftudious  rcflefiiing  genius  of  the  people  has  brought  togeth- 
er great  (lore  of  exprellions,  on  fuch  fubje£l:s,  from  every  quar- 
ter. We  are  rich  too  in  the  Language  of  poetry.  Our  poet- 
ical 


Lect.IX.       the  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  123 

ical  flyk  dIfFers  widely  from  profc,  not  in  point  of  numbers 
only,  "^^  in  the  very  words  themfelves  •,  which  fhows  M'hat  a 
ftock  and  compafs  of  words  we  have  it  in  our  power  to  feleO; 
and  employ,  fuited  to  thofe  different  occafions.  Herein  wc  arc 
infinitely  fuperior  to  the  French,  whofe  poetical  Language,  if 
it  were  not  diftinguiflied  by  rhyme,  would  not  be  known  to 
differ  from  their  ordinary  profe. 

It  is  chiefly,  indeed,  on  grave  fubje£ls,  and  with  refpe(Sl  to 
the  ftronger  emotions  of  the  mind,  that  our  Language  difplays 
its  power  of  expreffion.  We  are  faid  to  have  thirty  words,  at 
leaft,  for  denoting  all  the  varieties  of  the  paffion  of  anger.* 
But,  in  defcribing  the  more  delicate  fentiments  and  emotions, 
our  Tongue  is  not  fo  fertile.  It  mud  be  confeffed,  that  the 
French  Language  furpaffes  ours,  by  far,  in  expreffuig  the  nicer 
{hades  of  character  ;  efpecially  thofe  varieties  of  manner,  tem- 
per and  behaviour,  which  are  difplayed  in  our  foeial  inteircourfe 
with  one  another.  Let  any  one  attempt  to  tranflate,  into 
Englifh,  only  a  few  pages  of  one  of  Marivaux's  Novels,  and 
he  will  foon  be  fenfible  of  our  deficiency  of  expreffion  on  thefe 
fubje6ls.  Indeed,  no  Language  is  fo  copious  as  the  French 
for  whatever  is  dehcate,  gay,  and  amufing.  It  is,  perhaps,  the 
happieft  Language  for  converfation  in  the  known  world  •,  but, 
on  the  higher  fubje<Si:s  of  compofition,  the  Engliili  may  be  jult- 
ly  efteemed  to  excel  it  confiderabiy.  ' 

Language  is  generally  underitood  to  receive  its  predomi- 
nant tinfture  from  the  national  character  of  the  people  who 
fpeak  it.  We  muft  not,  indeed,  expert,  that  it  vfill  carry  an 
cxacfl:  and  full  impreffion  of  their  genius  and  manners  j  for, 
among  all  nations,  the  original  flock  of  words  which  they  re- 
ceived from  their  anceftors,  remains  as  the  foundation  of  their 
Speech  throughout  many  ages,  while  their  manners  undergo, 
perhaps,  very  great  alterations.  National  character  will,  how- 
ever, always  have  fomc  perceptible  influence  on  the  turn  of 
Language  ;  and  the  gaiety  and  vivacity  of  tlie  French,  and  the 
gravity  aiidthoughtfulnefsof  tlicEnglifli,  arefufficicntly  impreff- 
«d  on  their  refpedlive  Tongues. 

From 

*   Anger,  wrath,  pr.fTion,  ragepBrv,  outrAgc,  ficrccncfs,  fliarpncfs,  .nnlmofity; 
clioler,  rcfentmtnt,  heat,  heart-burning  ;  to  funic:,  ftorni,  inflame,  b:;  inccnl'tvi, 
to  vca,  kindle,  irritate,  enrage,  cxafpvratc,  provoke,  fret  ;  to  be  Allien,  li:4 
hot,  rough,  four,  pcevifli,  &ic.  Pi  cface  to  Greenwood's  Grammt 


524  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.       Lect.IX. 

From  the  genius  of  our  Language,  and  the  charaQej^^thofe 
who  fpeak  it,  it  may  be  expected  to  have  ftrength  anKcKergy. 
It  is,  indeed,  naturally  prolix  ;  owing  to  the  great  number  of 
particles  and  auxiliary  verbs  which  we  are  obliged  conftantly  to 
employ  :  and  this  prolixity  muft,  in  fome  degree,  enfeeble  it. 
We  feldom  can  exprefs  (o  much  by  one  word  as  was  done  by 
the  verbs,  and  by  the  nouns,  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  Lan- 
guages. Our  flyle  is  lefs  compadTb;  our  conceptions  being  fpread 
cut  among  more  words,  and  fplit,  as  it  were,  into  more  parts, 
make  a  fainter  imprefiion  when  we  utter  them.  Notwithlland- 
ing  this  defeft,  by  our  abounding  in  terms  for  exprefiing  all  the^ 
(Irong  emotions  of  the  mind,  and  by  the  liberty  which  v/c  enjoy, 
in  a  greater  degree  than  moft  nations,  of  compounding  words, 
our  Language  may  be  efleemed  to  poflefs  confiderabie  force  of 
exprefuon  ;  comparatively,  at  lead,  tidth  the  other  Modern 
Tongues  ;  though  much  below  the  ancient.  The  Style  of  Mil- 
ton alone,  both  in  poetry  and  profe,  is  a  fuflncient  proof,  that 
the  Englifli  Tongue  is  far  from  being  dcftitute  of  nerves  and 
energy. 

The  flexibility  of  a  Language,  or  its  power  of  accommoda- 
tion to  different  ftyles  and  manners,  fo  as  to  be  either  grave 
and  flrong,  or  eafy  and  flowing,  or  tender  and  gentle,  or 
pompous  and  magnificent,  as  occafions  require,  or  as  an  author's 
genius  prompts,  is  a  quality  of  great  importance  in  fpeaking  and 
writing.  It  feems  to  depend  upon  three  things ;  the  copioufnefs 
of  a  Language  ;  the  dilltrent  arrangements  of  which  its  words 
are  fufceptible  -,  and  the  variety  and  beauty  of  the  found  of 
thofe  words,  fo  as  to  correfj^ond  to  many  different  fubje£ls. 
Never  did  any  Tongue  poflefs  tliis  quality  fo  eminently  as  the 
Gi'^ek,  which  every  writer  of  genius  could  fo  mould,  as  to  make 
the  ftyle  perfcdly  cxpreflfivc  of  his  own  manner  and  peculiar 
turn.  It  had  all  the  tliree  requifites,  which  I  have  nlentioned, 
as  neceffary  for  this  purpofe.  It  j:oined  to  thefe  the  graceful  va- 
riety of  its  different  dialects  ;  and  thereby  readily  afl'umed  every 
fort  of  character  which  an  author  could  wifh,  from  the  molt 
fimple  and  molt  familiar,  up  to  the  moft  mnjeftic.  The  Latin, 
though  a  very  beautiful  Language^  is  inferior,  in  this  rcfpeft, 
to  the  Greek.  It  has  more  of  allild  character  of  ffatelimfs 
and  gravity.  It  is  always  lirm  and  mafculine  in  tne  tenor  cr 
its  found  •,  and  is  fupported  by  acertuia  fenatojrial  dignity,  of 

.^ '  which 


Lect.  IX.       THE  ENGLISH  LAKGIJAGE.  i2> 

which  it  is  difficult  for  a  writer  to  diveft  it  wholly,  on  any  ccca- 
fion.  Among  the  Modern  Tongues,  the  Italian  poflcfles  a  great 
deal  more  of  this  flexibility  than  the  French.  By  its  copiouf- 
nefs,  its  freedom  of  arrangement,  and  the  great  beauty  and 
harmony  of  its  founds,  it  fuits  itfelf  very  happily  to  mortfubje£ls, 
either  in  profe  or  in  poetry  ;  is  capable  of  the  iiuguft  and  the 
(Irong,  as  well  as  the  tender  ;  and  feems  to  be,  on  the  v;hoIc, 
the  mofl;  perfect  of  all  the  modern  diale<!^s  which  have  arifen 
out  of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient.  Our  own  Language,  though 
not  equal  to  the  Italian  in  flexibility,  yet  is  not  deflitute  of  a 
confidcrable  degree  of  this  quaHtv.  If  any  one  will  confider 
the  diverfity  of  ftyle  which  appears  in  fome  of  our  clafTics  ; 
that  great  difference  cf  manner,  for  inftancc,  which  is  marked 
by  the  ftyle  of  Lord  Shaftfbury,  and  that  of  Dean  Swift ;  he 
will  fee,  in  our  Tongue,  fuch  a  circle  of  expreffion,  fuch  a 
power  of  accommodation  to  the  different  tafle  of  writers,  as 
redounds  not  a  little  to  its  honour. 

What  theEnglKh  has  been  moff  taxed  with,  is  its  deficiency 
in  harmony  of  found.  But  though  every  native  is  apt  to  be 
par^al  to  the  founds  of  his  own  Language,  and  may,  therefore, 
be  fufpcdted  of  not  being  a  fair  judge  in  this  point;  yet,  I 
imagine,  there  arc  evident  grounds  on  which  it  may  be  fliown, 
that  tKis  charge  againft  our  Tongue  has  been  carried  too  far. 
The  melody  of  our  verfification,  its  power  of  fupporting  poct- 
ic<-.l  numbers,  without  any  affiftance  from  rhyme,  is  alone  a 
fulhcient  proof  that  our  Language  is  far  from  being  uiUTiufical. 
Our  verfe  is,  after  the  Italian,  the  moil  diverfified  and  harmo- 
nious of  any  of  the  modern  dialedls  ;  unqucflionably  far  be- 
yond the  French  verfe,  in  variety,  fweetnefs,  and  melody.  Mr, 
Sheridan  has  fliown,  in  his  Le6lures,  that  we  abound  more  in 
vowel  and  diphthong  founds,  than  moff  Languages  ;  and  tlicfc 
too,  fo  divided  into  long  and  fliort,  as  to  afford  a  proper  diver- 
fity in  the  quantity  of  our  fyllables.  Our  confonants,  he  ob- 
ferves,  which  appears  fo'crow^ded  to  the  eye  on  paper,  often 
form  combinations  not  difagreeable  to  tlic  ear  in  pronouncing  ; 
and,  in  particular,  the  objcftion  which  has  been  made  to  the 
frequent  recurrence  of  the  liiffing  confonant  s  in  our  Language, 
is  unjull  and  ill-founded.  For,  it  has  not  been  attended  to, 
that  very  commonly,  and  in  the  final  fyllables  efpccially,  this 
letter  lofes  altogether  the  hiffing  found,  and  is  transformed 
j^  into 


126  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.      Lect.IX. 

mto  a  Sj  which  is  one  of  the  founds  on  which  the  ear  refts  with 
plcafure  ;  as  in  hasy  ihefe^  thoje^  lovesy  hears,  and  innumerable 
more,  where,  though  the  letter  j-  be  retained  in  writing,  it  has 
really  the  power  of  z,  not  of  the  common  r. 

After  all,  however,  it  mufl  be  admitted,  that  fmoothnefs,  or 
beauty  of  found,  is  none  of  the  diflinguifhing  properties  of  the 
Englifh  Tongue.  Though  not  incapable  of  being  formed  into 
melodious  arrangements,  yet  ftrength  and  expreffiv«nefs,  more 
t'han  grace,  form  its  character.  We  incline,  in  general,  to  a 
Siort  pronunciation  of  our  words,  and  have  fhortened  the  quan- 
tity of  moil  of  thofe  which  we  borrow  from  the  Latin,  as  orator, 
fpeclacle,  thciTtref  liberty,  and  fuch  like.  Agreeable  to  this,  is  a 
remarkable  peculiarity  of  Englifh  pronunciation,  the  throwing 
the  accent  farther  back,  that  is,  nearer  the  beginning  of  the  word, 
than  is  done  by  any  other  nation.  In  Greek  and  Latin,  no  word 
is  accented  farther  back  than  the  third  fyllable  from  the  end,  or 
what  is  called  the  antepenult.  But,  in  Englifli,  we  have  many" 
words  accented  on  the  fourth,  fome  on  the  fifth  fyllable  from  the 
end,  as,  memorable,  convsnieiicy,  amhulator-^,  prdfitabtenefs.  The 
general  efi'e6l  of  this  pra£lice  oi  haftening  the  accent,  or  plac- 
ing it  fo  near  the  beginning  of  a  word,  is  to  give  a  brilk  and 
a  fpirited  but  at  the  fame  time,  a  rapid  and  hurried,  and  not  a. 
\tery  mufical,  tone  to  the  whole  pronunciation  of  a  people. 

The  Englifli  Tongue  poficfTes,  undoubtedly,  this  property,  of 
being  the  mofl  fimple  in  its  form  and  conftru6lion,  of  all  the 
European  diale6ls.  It  is  free  from  all  intricacy  of  cafes,  declcn- 
£ons,  moods  and  tenfes.  Its  words  are  fubjeft  to  fewer 
variations  from  their  original  form  than  thofe  of  any  other  Lan- 
guage. Its  fubftantives  have  no  difi:in£l:lon  of  gender,  except 
what  nature  has  made,  and  but  one  variation  in  cafe.  Its 
adjectives  admit  of  no  change  at  all,  except  what  exprefles  the 
degree  of  comparifon.  Its  verbs,  inftead  of  running  through 
all  the  varieties  of  ancient  conjvigation,  fufFer  no  more  than  four 
or  five  changes  in  termination.  By  the  help  of  a  few  prcp- 
ofitions  and  auxiliary  verbs,  all  the  purpofes  of  fignifieancy  in 
meaning  are  accomplifiied  j  while  the  words  for  the  moft  part, 
preferve  their  form  unchanged.  The  difadvantages  in  point  of 
elegance,  brevity,  and  force,  which  follow  from  this  ftru£lurc 
of  our  Language,  I  have  before  pointed  out.     But  at  the  fame 

time, 


I^ECT.IX.       THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  127 

time,  it  mud  be  admitted,  thiit  fuch  a  (IrmSture  contributes  to 
facility.  It  renders  the  acquiOtiou  of  our  Language  lefs  labori- 
ous, the  arrangement  of  our  v/ords  more  plain  and  obvious,  the 
rules  of  our  fyntax  fewer  and  more  fimple. 

I  agree,  indeed,  with  Dr.  Lowth,  (preface  to  his  Grammar) 
:n  thinking  that  this  very  fimplicity^and  facility  of  our  Lan- 
guage proves  a  -caufe  of  its  being  frequently  written  and  fpoken 
with  lefs  accuracy.  It  was  neceffiiry  to  iludy  Languages  which 
were  of  a  more  complex  and  artificial  form,  with  greater  care. 
The  marks  of  gender  and  cafe,  the  varieties  cf  conjugation  and 
<ieclenlion,  the  multiplied  rules  of  fyntax,  were  all  to  be  attend- 
ed to  in  fpeech.  Hence  Language  became  more  an  objeft  of 
art.  It  was  reduced  into  form  ;  a  ftandard  was  eftabliflied  ^ 
and  any  departures  from  the  (tandard  became  confpicuous. 
Whereas,  among  us.  Language  is  hardly  confidered  as  an  objeci 
jcf  grammatical  rule.  We  take  it  for  granted,  that  a  competeat 
ikill  in  it  may  be  acquired  without  any  ftudy  ;  and  that,  in  a  fyn- 
tax fo  narrow  and  confined  as  ours,  there  is  nothing  which  de- 
snande  attention.  Hence  arifes  the  habit  of  writing  in  a  loofe 
and  iiiaccurate  manner. 

I  admit,  that  no  grammatical  rules  have  fufficient  authority  to 
control  the  firm  and  eftabliflied  ufage  of  Language.  Eftablifli- 
ed cuftom  in  fpcaking  and  writing,  is  the  ftandard  to  which 
we  muft  at  laft  refort  for  determining  every  controverted  point 
in  Langu,ige  and  Style.  But  it  will  not  follow  from  this,  that 
grammatical  rules  ure  fuperfeded  as  ufelefs.  In  every  Language, 
which  has  been  in  any  degree  cultivated,  there  prevails  a  cer- 
tain ftrii£lure  and  analogy  of  parts,  which  is  underftood  to 
give  foundation  to  the  molt  reputable  ufiige  of  Speech  j  and 
which,  in  all  cafes,  when  ufage  is  loofe  or  dubious,  poiTefTes 
coufiderablc  authority.  In  every  Language,  there  are  rules  of 
fyntax  which  muft  be  inviolably  obfcrved  by  all  who  would 
either  write  or  fpeak  with  any  propriety.  For  fynta^x  is  no 
other  than  that  arrangement  of  words,  in  a  fcntcncc,  which  ren- 
ders the  meaning  of  each  word,  and  tlie  relation  of  all  the  words 
to  one  another,  moft  clear  and  intelligible. 

All  the  rules  of  Latin  fyntax,  it  is  true,  cannot  be  applied  to 
our  Language.  Manyof  thofei-ulesarofe  from  the  particular  form 
of  their  Language,  which  occafloned  verbs  orprcpofitions  to  gov- 
ern. 


I2S  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUx\GE.       Lect.IX. 

em,  fomc  the  genitive,  fome  the  dative,  fome  the  accufative  or 
ablative  cafe.  B.ut,  abftra£ling  from  thefe  peculiariiivis,  it  is  to 
be  always  vemembeicd,  that  the  chief  and  fundamental  rules  of 
fyntax  are  common  to  the  Esigliib  as  well  as  the  Latin  Tongue  ; 
and,  indeed,  belong  equally  to  all  Languages.  For,  in  all  Lan- 
guages, thcj)art3  which  compofe  Speech  are  eflentially  the  fame  j 
iubltantives,  adjeftives,  verbs,  and  conne£liug  particles  :  and 
wherever  thefe  parts  of  Speech  arc  found,  there  are  certain  necefla- 
ry  relations  among  them,  which  regulate  their  fyntax,  or  the  place 
which  they  ought  to  poflefs  in  a  fentence.  Thus,  in  Englifli,  juft 
as  much  as  in  Latin,  the  adjedive  mufl,  by  pofition,  be  made  to 
agree  with  its  fubTtantive;  and  the  verb  mull  agree  vi^th  its  nomi- 
native  in  perfon  and  number;  becaufe,  from  the  nature  of  things, 
a  word,  which  exprefles  either  a  quality  or  an  aclion,  muft  cor- 
refpond  as  clofcly  ac  podlble  with  the  name  of  that  thing  whofe 
quality,  or  whofe  aftion,  it  exprefles.  Two  or  more  fubftan- 
tives,  joined  by  a  copulative,  mull  always  require  the  verbs  or 
pronouns,  to  which  they  refer,  to  be  placed  in  the  plural  num- 
ber ;  otherwife,  their  comn-ion  relation  to  thofe  verbs  or  pro- 
nouns is  not  pointed  out.  An  atlive  verb  mufl,  in  every  Lan- 
guage, govern  the  accufative  ;  that  is,  clearly  point  out  fome 
fubftantive  noun,  as  the  objecfl  to  which  its  a£bion  is  dire£led. 
A  relative  pronoun  mud,  in  every  form  of  Speech,  agi-ee  v/ith 
its  antecedent  in  gender,  number,  and  perfon  ;  and  conjunc- 
tions, or  connedting  particles,  ought  always  to  couple  like  cafes 
rind  moods  ;  that  is,  ought  to  join  together  words  which  are  of 
the  fame  form  and  (late  with  each  other.  I  mention  thefe,  as 
a  few  exemplifications  of  that  fundamental  regard  to  fyntax, 
which,  even  in  fuch  a  Language  as  ours,  is  abfolutely  requifite 
for  writing  or  fpeaking  with  any  propriety. 

Whatever  the  advantages,  or  defeats  of  the  Englifli  Language 
be,  as  it  is  our  own  Language,  it  deferves  a  high  degree  of  our 
fludy  and  attention,  both  with  regard  to  the  choice  of  words 
which  we  employ,  and  with  regard  to  the  fyntax,  or  the  arrange- 
ment of  thefe  words  in  a  fentence.  We  know  how  much  the 
Greeks  and  the  Romans,  in  their  mod  poliflied  and  fiourifliing 
times,  cultivated  their  own  Tongues.  We  know  hov/  much 
ftudy  both  the  French,  and  the  Italians,  have  beflowed  upon 
theirs.     Whatever  knowledge  may  be  acquired  bv  the  (ludy  of 

other 


Lect.IX.       the  ENGLISH  language.  129 

other  Languages,  it  can  never  be  communicated  with  advan- 
tage, unlefs  by  fuch  as  can  write  and  fpeak  their  own  Lan- 
guage well.  Let  the  matter  of  an  author  be  ever  fo  good  and 
ufeful,  his  compofitions  will  always  fufFer  in  the  public  efteem, 
if  his  expreflion  be  deficient  in  purity  and  propriety.  At  the 
fame  time,  the  attainment  of  a  corredt  and  elegant  flyle,  is  an 
obje<St  which  demands  application  and  labour.  If  any  imagine 
they  can  catch  it  merely  by  the  ear,  or  acquire  it  by  a  flight 
perufal  of  fome  of  our  good  authors,  they  will  find  themfelves 
much  difappointed.  The  many  errors,  even  in  point  of  gram- 
mar, the  many  ofFences  againfl  purity  of  Language,  which  are 
committed  by  writers  who  are  far  from  being  contemptible, 
dcmonflrate,  that  a  careful  ftudy  of  the  Language  is  previoufly 
requifite,  in  all  who  aim  at  writing  it  properly.* 

*  On  this  fubjedl,  the  Reader  ougkt  to  perufe  Dr.  Lowth's  Short  Introduc- 
tion to  Englifh  Grammar,  with  Critical  Notes;  wliich  is  the  grammatical  per- 
formance of  higheft  auciiority  that  has  appeared  in  our  time,  and  in  ivhicli  lie 
T^'ill  fee,  what  1  have  laid  concerniiig  the  inaccuracies  in  Language  of  fome 
of  our  beft  writers,  fully  verified.  In  Dr.  Campbell's  Philofophy  of  Rhetoric, 
he  will  likewifc  find  many  acute  and  ingenious  obl'ervations,  both  on  the  Eng- 
iifh  Language,  and  on  Style  in  general.  And  Dr.  Prieftiey's  Rudiments  of  Lng- 
lilh  Grammar  will  alfo  be  ufeful,  by  poijicing  out  feveral  of  the  errors  intd 
tvhich  writers  are  apt  to  fail. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE  X, 


STYLE.     rERSPICUITY  AND  PRECISION. 

JuLAVING  finiflied  the  fiibjeft  of  Language,  I  now 
enter  on  the  confldcration  of  Style,  and  the  rules  that  relate  to  it. 
It  is  not  eafv  to  giv^a  precife  idea  of  what  is  meant  by  Style. 
The  befl  definition  I  can  give  of  it,  is,  the  peculiar  manner  in 
■which  a  man  exprefles  hisconceprions,  by  means  of  Language. 
It  is  different  from  mere  Language  or  words.  The  word^s, 
v<'hich  an  author  employs,  may  be  proper  and  faultlefs ;  and 
his  Style  may,  neverthelefs,  have  great  faults  5  it  may  be  dry, 
(rr  fliff,  or  feeble,  or  affe61:ed.  Style  has  always  fome  reference 
to  an  author's  manner  of  thinking-  It  is  a  pi£ture  of  the 
ideas  which  rife  in  his  mind,  and  of  the  manner  in  which  they 
rife  there  ;  and,  hence,  when  we  are  examining  an  autlior's 
compofition,  it  is,  in  many  cafes,  extremely  difficult  to  fepa- 
rate  the  Style  from  the  fcntiment.  |  No  wonder  thefe  two 
fliould  be  fo  intimately  coimecled,  as  Style  is  nothing  elfe,  than 
that  fort  of  exprcffion  which  our  thoughts  moiT:  readily  alTume. 
Hence,  different  countries  have  been  noted  for  peculiarities  of 
Style,  fuitcd  to  their  different  temper  and  genius.  The  eailern 
nations  animated  their  Style  with  the  moil  ftrong  and  hyper- 
bolical figures.  The  Athenians,  a  poliflicd  and  acute  people, 
formed  a  Style  accurate,  clear,  and  neat.  The  Afiatics,  gay 
and  loofe  in  their  manners,  affecled  a  Style  fxorid  and  diffufe. 
The  like  fort  of  characSleriftical  differences  arc  commonly  re- 
marked in  the  Style  of  the  French,  the  Englifh,  and  the  Span- 
iards. In  giving  the  general  characlers  of  Style,  it  is  ufuai  to 
talk  of  a  nervous,  a  feeble,  or  a  fpirited  Style  ;  which  are  plain- 
ly the  charadlcrs  of  a  writer's  manner  of  thinking,  as  well  as 
of  cxprcffuig  himfelf :  So  dinicult  it  is  to  feparate  thefe  two 
tl)in^s  from  one  another.     Of  the  general  charadlers  of  Style, 

I  am 


Lect.  X.  r  E  R  s  r  I  c  u  I  t  y.  131 

I  am  afterwards  to  dlfcoujfc  ;  but  it  will  be  necefTary  to  begin 
with  examitiing  the  more  fuiiplc  qualities  of  it  j  from  the  af- 
femblage  of  which,  its  move  complex  deno:ninations,  in  a  great 
ineafure,  refult. 

All  the  qualities  of  a  good  Style  may  be  ranged  upder  two 
heads,  Perfpicuity  and  Ornament.  For  all  that  ean  poiTibly  be 
required  of  Language,  is,  to  convey  our  ideas  clearly  to  the 
minds  of  others,  and,  at  the  fame  time,  in  fuch  a  drefs,  as  by 
pleafmg  and  interefting.  them,  -fliall  moll  etlesfiually  ftrcngthen 
the  imffrdlions  which  we  fcek  tx)  make.  When  both  thefe  ends 
are  anfwWed,  we  certainly  aecomplifii  every  purpofe  for  which 
we  ufe  Writing  and  Difcourfe.    I 

Perfpicuity,  it  will  b;=.  readily  admitted,  is  the  fundamental 
quality  of  Style  ;*  a  quality  fo  clTential  in  every  kind  of  writ- 
ing, that,  for  the  want  of  it,  nothing  can  atone.  Without  this, 
ornaments  of  Style  only  glimmer  through  ;he  dark  j  and  puz- 
zle, inftead  of  pleafmg  the  reader.  This,  therefore,  mull  be 
our  firfl  objcil,  to  make  our  meaning  clearly  and  fully  under-, 
ftood,  and  underflood  without,  the  leaft  diUicuhy.J  "  Oratio," 
fays  Q^Intilian,  "  debet  negligenter  quoque  audientibus  efiJe 
*'  aperta  ;  ut  in  animura  audientis,  Gcut  foi  in  oeulos,  etiaarfi  in 
"  eum  non  indendatur,  occurrat.  Quare,  non  folum  ut  intel» 
*'  ligei'e  }X){rit,  fed  ne  omnino  pofTit  non  intelligcre  curandum."f 
If  vi|iare  obliged  to  follow  a  writer  with  much  caie,  to  paufc,  , 
and  to  read  over  his  fentences  a  fccond  tim.e,  in  order  to  com- 
prehend them  fully,  he  will  never  pleafe  us  long.  Mankind 
are  too  indolent  to  relifli  fo  much  labour.  They  may  pretend 
to  admire  the  author's  depth,  after  they  have  difcovered  his 
meaning  ;  but  they  will  fcldom  be  inclined,  to  take  up  his  woik 
a  fecond  time. 

Authors  fometimes  plead  the  difficulty  of  their  fubje£l,  as 
an  excufe  for  the  want  of  Pcrfpicuity.  13ut  the  excufe  c;ni 
rarely,  if  eve.r,  be  admitted.     For  whatever  a  man  conceives 

clearly, 

*  "  Nobis  prliTia  fit  virtus,  pcrfi)iciiit,vs,  propria  verba,  rc(5Viis  ordo,  uon  in 
"  longuni  dilata  conclufio  ;  nihil  iitijuc  dtlit,  ntqus  fupcrfliiat." 

(TuiNTii,.  lib.  viii. 

•f  "  D;fcoiitfc  oi)f;Iit  alwavs  to  be  ol)vIniis,  even  to  tlie  niofl  carclcfi  and  ncjj- 
"  ligent  hearer  ;  lu  tliat  tht  ftnfe  fliall  (Irikt  his  mind,  as  the  liytit  of  the  nin 
"  does  our  eyes,  th()U.i;h  tlicy  are  not  dircAed  upwariU  to  it.  Wc  mufl  (i»dj 
■•  not  only  tlut  every  licarcr  may  undcrftand  us,  b»it  that  it  fliall  be  impollit. 
'•■Ik  ("or  hiia  not  to  underflaud  us," 


132  PERSPICUITY.  Lect.X. 

clearly,  tliat,  it  is  in  his  power,  if  he  will  be  at  the  trouble,  to 
put  into  didin^l  propofitionsj  or  to  exprefs  clearly  to  others  : 
and  upon  no  fubjeft  ought  any  man  to  write,  where  he  cannot 
think  clearly.  His  ideas,  indeed,  may,  very  excufably,  be  on 
fome  fubjecls  incomplete  or  inadequate  ;  but  flill,  as  far  as 
they  go,  they  ought  to  be  clear  ;  and  wherever  this  is  the  cafe, 
Perfpicuity,  in  exprcfllng  them,  is  always  attainable.  The  ob- 
fcurity  which  reigns  fo  much  among  many  metaphyfical  writers, 
is,  for  the  moft  part,  owing  to  the  indiflin£lnefs  of  their  own 
conceptions.  They  fee  the  objc£l  but  in  a  confufed  light  ; 
and,  of  courfe,  can  never  exhibit  it  in  a  clear  one  tQ|pthcrs. 

Perfpicuity  in  writing,  is  not  to  be  conCdered  as  only  a  fort 
of  negative  virtue,  or  freedom  from  defetl.  It  has  higher  mer- 
it :  It  is  a  degree  of  pofitive  beauty.  We  are  pleafcd  with  an 
author,  we  confider  him  as  deferving  praife,  who  frees  us  from 
all  fatigue  of  fcarching  for  his  meaning  ;  who  carries  us  through 
his  fubjetl  without  any  embarraffment  or  confufion  ;  v/hofe 
ftyle  flows  always  like  a  limpid  ftream,  where  we  fee  to  the 
very  bottom. 

The  fludy  of  Perfpicuity  requires  attention,  firfl,  to  fingle 
words  and  phrafes,  and  then  to  the  con{lru£lion  of  fentences. 
I  begin  with  treating  of  the  firft,  and  fliall  confine  myfelf  to  it 
in  this  Lefture. 

Perfpicuity,  confidered  with  refpe^l  to  words  and  phrafes, 
requires  thefe  three  qualities  in  them,  Purityy  Propriify^znA 
JBrec'ifion. 

Purity  and  Propriety  of  Language  are  often  ufed  indifcrim- 
inately  for  each  other  ;  and,  indeed,  they  are  very  nearly  alli- 
ed. A  diftin£lion,  however,  obtains  between  them.  Purity 
is  the  ufe  of  fuch  words,  and  fuch  conflruflions,  as  belong 
to  the  idiom  of  the  Language  which  we  fpeak ;  in  oppofition 
to  words  and  phrafes  that  are  imported  from  other  Languages, 
or  that  are  obfolete,  or  new  coined,  or  ufed  without  proper 
authority.  Propriety,  is  the  fele£lion  of  fuch  words  in  the 
Language,  as  the  bed  and  moll  cRabliUied  ufage  has  appro- 
priated to  thofe  ideas  which  we  intend  to  exprefs  by  them.  It 
implies  the  corre6l  and  happy  application  of  them,  according 
to  that  ufage,  in  oppofition  to  vulgarifms  or  low  exprelTions ; 
and  to  words  and  phrafes,  which  would  be  lefs  significant  of 

the 


Lect.  X,  PERSPICUITY.  133 

the  ideas  that  we  mean  to  convey.  Style  may  he  pure,  that  is, 
it  may  all  be  ftrictly  Engliih,  without  Scoticifms  or  Gallicifm§, 
or  ungrammatical  irregular  expreflions  of  any  kind,  and  may, 
neverthclefs,  be  deficient  in  Propriety.  I'he  words  may  be 
ill-chofen  ;  not  adapted  to  the  fubje£b,  nor  fully  cxpreffivc 
of  the  author's  fenfe.  He  has  taken  all  his  words  and  phrafes, 
from  the  general  mafs  of  Englifii  Language? ;  but  he  has  made 
his  fe!e£l;ion  among  thcfe  words  unhappily.  "Whereas,  Style 
cannot  be  proper  without  being  alfo  pure  ;  and  where  both 
Purity  and  Propriety  meet,  befidcs  making  Style  perfpicuous, 
they  alfo  MJider  it  graceful.  There  is  no  ftandard,  either  of 
Purity  or  of  Propriety,  but  the  praftice  of  the  bell  writers  and 
fpeakers  in  the  country. 

When  I  mentioned  obfolete  or  new-coined  words  as  iucon- 
gruous  with  Purity  of  Style,  it  will  be  eafily  underftood,  that 
Ibme  exceptions  are  to  be  made.  On  certain  occafions,  they 
may  have  grace.  Poetry  admits  of  greater  latitude  than  profe, 
with  refpe6l  to  coining,  or,  at  leaft,  new-compounding  words  ; 
yet,  even  here,  this  liberty  (hould  be  ufed  with  a  fparing  hand. 
In  profe,  fuch  innovations  are  more  hazardous,  and  have  3. 
worfe  effedl.  They  are  apt  to  give  Style  an  affef^ed  an4 
conceited  air  j  and  Ihould  never  be  ventured  upon,  except  by 
fuch,  whofe  cftablifhed  reputation  gives  them  fome  degree  of 
diftatorial  power  over  Language. 

TIw  introduction  of  foreign  and  learned  words,  unlcfs  where 
neceffity  requires  them,  fliould  always  be  avoided.  Barren. 
Languages  may  need  fuch  afliflances  ;  but  ours  is  not  one 
of  thefe.  Dean  Swift,  one  of  our  mod  correal  writers,  valued 
himfelf  much  on  ufing  no  words  but  fuch  as  were  of  native 
growth  :  and  his  Language  may,  indeed,  be  confidered  as  a 
llandard  of  the  flriileft  Purity  and  Propriety  in  the  choice  of 
words.  At  prcfent,  we  feem  to  be  departing  from  this  fland- 
ard.  A  multitude  of  Latin  words  have,  of  late,  been  poured 
in  upon  us.  On  fome  occafions,  they  give  an  appearance  of 
elevation  and  dignity  to  Style.  But  often,  alfo,  they  render  it 
llifF  and  forced  :  and,  in  general,  a  plain  native  Style,  as  it  is 
more  intelligible  to  all  readers,  fo,  by  a  proper  management 
of  words,  it  can  be  made  equally  flrong  and  exprcfllve  with 
this  Latinifcd  Englifii.  ^ 

Let 


134  PRECISION  IN  STYLli.  Lect.  X. 

Let  us  now  confider  the  import  of  Precifion  In  Language, 
which,  as  it  is  the  liighefl:  part  of  the  quality  denoted  by  Perfpi- 
cuity,  merits  a  full  explication  •,  and  the  more,  becaufc  diflincl 
ideas  are,  perhaps,  not  commonly  formed  about  it. 

The  exaifl  import  of  Precifion  may  be  drawn  from  the  ety- 
mology of  the  word.  Jt  comes  from  **  precidcre,"  to  cut  ofF : 
It  imports  retrenching  all  fuperfluities,  and  pruning  the  expref- 
fion  fo,  as  to  exhibit  neither  more  nor  Icfi  than  an  cxa<fl:  copy 
of  his  idea  vho  ufes  it.  1  obferved  before,  that  it  is  often  dif-» 
licult  to  feparate  the  qualities  of  Style  from  the  qualities'  of 
Thought ;  and  it  is  found  fo  in  this  inRance. '  F(^  in  order 
to  write  with  Precifion,  though  this  be  properly  a  quality  of 
Style,  one  muft  poflefs  a  very  confiderable  degree  of  difiindl- 
nefs  and  accuracy  in  his  manner  of  thinking. 

The  words,  which  a  man  ufes  to  exprefs  liis  ideas,  may  be 
faulty  in  three  refpe£ls  :  They  may  either  not  exprefs  that  idea 
which  the  author  intends,  but  fome  other  which  only  refem- 
bles,  or  is  akin  to  it  j  orj  they  may  exprefs  that  idea,  but  not 
quite  fully  and  completely  ;  or,  they  may  exprefs  it,  together 
with  fomething  mor.e  than  he  intends.  Precifion  Hands  oppof- 
cd  to  all  thefe  three  faults  ;  but  chiefly  to_the  lall.  In  an  au- 
thor's writing  with  Propriety,  his  being  free  of  the  two  former 
faults  feems  implied.  The  words  which  he  ufes  are  proper  j 
that  is,  they  exprefs  that  idea  which  he  intends,  ai^fcjithcy 
exprefs  it  fully  ;  but  to  be  precife,  fignifies,  that  they  exprefe 
that  idea,  and  no  more.  There  is  nothing  in  his  words  which 
introduces  any  foreign  idea,  any  fupcrlluous  unfeafcnable  ac- 
ceflbry,  fo  as  to  mix  it  confufedly'with  the  principal  object, 
and  thereby  to  render  our  conception  of  that  obje£l  loofe  and 
indiRin6t.  This  requires  a  writer  to  have,  himfclf,  a  very 
clear  apprehenfionof  the  obje6l  he  means  to  prefcnt  to  us  ;  to 
have  laid  faft  hold  of  it  in  his  mind  ;  and  never  to  waver  in 
any  one  view  he  takes  of  it :  a  perfettion  to  which,  indeed, 
few  writers  attain. 

The  ufe  and  importance  of  Precifion,  may  be  deduced  from 
the  nature  of  the  human  mind.  It  never  can  vicM',  clearly 
and  difliinStly,  above  one  obje£l  at  a  time.  If  it  mud  look  at 
two  or  three  together,  efpecially  objefls  among  whicli  there  is 
refeniblaucc  or  connexion,  it  finds  itf(# '  confufed  and  cmbar- 

rafll-d. 


t 


Lect.X.  precision  in  style.  135 

railed.  1  It  cannot' clearly  perceive  in  what  tliey  agree,  and  in 
what  they  dilTcr.  Thus,  were  any  obje£l,  fuppofc  fome  animal, 
to  be  prefented  to  me,  of  whofe  ftructure  I  wanted  to  form  a 
didinct  notion,  I  would  defire  all  its  trappings  to  be  taken  ofF, 
I  would  require  it  to  he  brought  before  me  by  itfelf,  and  to 
ftand  alone,  that  there  might  be  nothing  to  diflrail  my  atten- 
tion. The  fame  is  the  cafe  with  words.  If,  when  you  would 
inform  me  of  your  meaning,  you  alfo  tell  me  more  than  what 
conveys  it  ;  if  you  join  foreign  circumftances  to  the  principal 
objedl  ;  if,  by  unnecelTarily  varying  the  cxpreffion,  you  Huh 
the  point  of  view,  and  make  me  fee  fometimes  the  object  itfelf 
and  fometimo)*- another  thing  that  is  coni:e£led  v/ith  it  ;  you 
thereby  oblige  me  to  look  on  feveral  objecSls  at  once,  and  I  lofe 
fight  of  the  principal.  You  load  the  animal  you  are  fhowing 
me,  with  fo  many  trappings  and  collars,  and  bring  fo  many  of 
the  fame  fpecies  before  me,  fomewhat  refcmbling,  and  yet  fome- 
what  differing,  that  I  fee  none  of  them  clearly. 

This  forms  what  is  called  a  Loofe  Style  ;  and  is  the  proper 
oppofite  to  Precifion.  It  generally  arifes  from  ufing  a  fuper- 
liuity  of  words.  Feeble  writers  employ  a  multitude  of  words 
to  make  thenifelves  underflood,  as  they  think  more  diftinclly  ; 
and  they  only  cojifound  tlie  reader.  ■'  They  are  fenfible  of  not 
having  caught  the  precifc  exprefhon,  to  convey  what  they  would 
fignify,;  they  do  not,  indeed,  conceive  their  own  meaning  very 
precifely  tliemfelves  ;  and,  therefore,  help  it  out,  as  they  can,  by 
this  and  the  other  word,  which  may,  as  they  fuppofe,  fupply  the 
defe£l,  and  bring  you  fomewhat  nearer  to  their  idea  :  they  are 
always  going  about  it,  and  about  it,  but  never  juil  hit  the  thing. 
The  image,  as  they  fet  it  before  you,  is  always  feen  double  ; 
and  no  double  image  is  diflincl:.  When  an  author  tells  me  of 
his  hero's  courage  in  the  day  of  battle,  the  expreflion  is  precifc, 
and  I  underlland  it  fully.  But  if,  from  the  defirc  of  multiply- 
ing words,  he  will  needs  praife  his  courage  and  fortitude ;  at 
t\\t  moment  he  joins  thefe  words  together,  my  idea  begins  to 
waver.  He  means  to  exprefs  one  quality  more  flrongly  ;  but 
he  is,  in  truth,  exprefhng  two.  Courage  refills  danger  ;  fortitude 
aipports  pain.  The  occafion  of  exerting  each  of  thefe  qualities 
is  different  j  and  being  led  to  think  of  both  together,  wheu 
only  one  *of  them  fliould  be  in  my  view,  my  view  is  rendered 
unileady,  and  my  conception  of  the  obje£l  iiuiilhnd. 

From 


1^6  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  Lect.  X. 

From  what  I  have  faid,  it  appears  that  an  author  may,  in  a 
cjualified  fcnfo,  be  perfpicuous,  while  yet  he  is  far  from  being 
precife.  He  ufes  proper  words,  and  proper  arrangement ;  he 
gives  you  the  idea  as  clear  as  he  conceives  it  himfcif  j  and  fo  far 
he  is  perfpicuous:  but  the  ideas  are  not  very  clear  in  his  own 
mind  ;  they  are  loofe  and  general ;  and,  therefore,  cannot  be 
cxpvelTed  with  Precifion.  All  fubjedts  do  not  equally  require 
Precifion.  It  is  fufficient,  on  many  occafions,  that  we  have  a 
general  view  of  the  meaning.  The  fubje<Si,  perhaps,  is  of  the 
known  and  familiar  kind  ;  and  we  are  in  no  hazard  of  miflak- 
ing  the  fenfe  of  the  author,  though  every  word  which  he  ufes 
be  not  precife  and  exadl:. 

Few  authors,  for  inftance,  in  the  Engllfli  Language,  are  more 
clear  and  perfpicuous,  on  the  whole,  than  Archbifliop  Tillotfon, 
and  Sir  William  Temple  ;  yet  neither  of  them  are  remarkable 
for  Precifion.  They  are  loofe  and  difFufe  ;  and  accuftomcd  to 
exprcfs  their  meaning  by  feveral  v/ords,  which  fhow  you  fully 
"whereabouts  it  lies,  rather  than  to  fingle  out  thofe  expreflions, 
which  would  convey  clearly  the  idea  whicli  they  have  in  view, 
and  no  more.  Neither,  indeed,  is  Precifion  the  prevailing  char- 
a£ler.of  Mr.  Addlfon's  Style  ;  although  he  is  not  fo  deficient 
in  this  refpe^l  as  the  other  two  authors. 

Lord  Shaftefbury's  faults,  in  point  of  Precifion,  are  much 
greater  than  Mr.  Addlfon's  ;  and  tlie  more  unpardonable,  becaufe 
he  is  a  profcfTcd  phllofophlcal  writer  ;  who,  as  fuch,  ought, 
above  ail  things,  to  have  lludled  Precifion.  His  Style  has  both 
great  beauties  and  great  faults  ■,  and,  on  the  whole,  is  by  no 
means  a  fafe  rriodel  for  imitation.  Lord  Shaftefbury  v/as  well 
acquainted  with  the  power  of  words  ;  thofe  which  he  employs 
are  generally  proper  and  well  founding  ;  he  has  -great  variety 
of  them ;  and  his  arrangement,  as  {hall  be  afterwards  fliown,  is 
commonly  beautiful.  His  defedl,  in  Precifion,  is  not  owing  fo 
much  to  indirtin£t  or  confufed  ideas,  as  to  perpetual  afiPeilation. 
He  is  fond,  to  excefs,  of  the  pomp  and  parade  of  Language ;  he 
is  never  fatisfied  with  exprefiing  any  thing  clearly  and  fimply  ; 
he  mufl  always  give  it  the  drefs  of  flatc  and  majefty.  Hence 
perpetual  circumlocutions,  and  many  words  and  phrafes  cm- 
ployed  to  defcrlbe  fomewhat,  that  would  have  been  defcrlbed 
much  better  by  one  of  them.     If  he  has  occafion  to  mention 


Lect.X.  precision  in  style.  t37 

any  perfon  6r  author,  he  very  rarely  mentions  him  by  his  prop- 
er name.  In  the  treatife,  entitled,  Advice  to  an  Author,  he 
defcants  for  two  or  three  pages  together  upon  Ariftotle,  without 
once  naming  him  in  any  other  way,  than,  the  Mafler  Critic, 
the  Mighty  Genius  and  Judge  of  Art,  the  Prince  of  Critics, 
the  Grand  Mafter  of  Art,  and  Confummate  Philologift.  Iii 
the  i\in\c  way,  the  Grand  Poetic  Sire,  the  Philofophical  Patri- 
arch, and  his  Difciple  of  Noble  Birth,  and  Lofty  Genius,  arc 
the  only  names  by  which  he  condefcends  to  didinguifli  Homer, 
Socrates,  and  Plato,  in  another  pafTige  of  the  fame  treatife. 
This  method  of  diflinguiPning  perfons  is  extremely  affected  ; 
but  it  is  not  fo  contrary  to  Precifion,  as  the  frequent  circum- 
locutions he  employs  for  all  moral  ideas ;  attentive,  on  every 
occafion,  more  to  the  pomp  of  Lajjguage,  than  to  the  clearnefs 
which  he  ought  to  have  ftudied  as  a  philofopher.  The  moral 
fenfe,  for  inftance,  after  he  had  once  defined  it,  was  a  clear 
term  ;  but,  how  vague  bccoines  the  idea,  when,  in  the  next 
page,  he  calls  it,  "  That  natural  affcclion>  and  anticipating  fau- 
**  cy,  which  makes  the  fenfe  of  right  and  wrong  ?"  Self-examin- 
ation, or  reflection  on  our  own  conduct,  is  an  idea  conceived 
with  eafe ;  but  when  it  is  wrought  into  all  the  forms  of,  "  A 
"  man's  dividing  himfelf  into  two  parties,  becoming  a  felf-dial- 
*'  ogift,  entering  into  partnerlhip  with  himfelf,  forming  the  dual^ 
*' number  practically  within  himfelf  j"  we  lurdiy  know  what 
to  make  of  it.  On  fome  occafions,  he  fo  adorns,  or  rather 
loads  with  word?,  the  plainefl:  and  fimplcll  propofitlons,  as,  if 
not  to  obfcure,  at  lead,  to  enfeeble  them. 

In  the  follovi^ing  paragraph,  for  example,  of  the  Inquiry  con- 
cerning Virtue,  he  means  to  fliow,  that,  by  every  ill  aclion  we 
hurt  our  mind,  as  much  as  one  who  ihould  fwallow  poifon,  or 
give  himfelf  a  wound,  would  hurt  his  body.  Obferve  what  a 
redundancy  of  words  he  pours  forth  :  "  Now,  if  the  fabric  of 
**  the  mind  or  temper  appeared  to  us,  fuch  as  it  really  is  ;  if  we 
**  faw  it  impoflTible  to  remove  hence  any  one  good  or  orderly  af- 
*'  fcftion,  or  to  introduce  any  ill  or  diforderly  one,  withou;^ 
"  drawing  on,  in  fome  degree,  that  dillblute  Hate  which,  at  its 
**  height,  is  cotifelfod  to  be  fo  miferable  -,  it  would  then,  un- 
"doubtedly,  be  confefled,  that  fince  no  ill,  immoral,  or  unjult 
T  « aaion. 


ISS  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  Lect.X. 

"  a£lion,  can  be  committed,  without  cither  a  new  inroad  and 
"  breach  on  the  temper  and  paflTions,  or  a  further  advancing  of 
**  tliat  execution  already  done  :  whoever  did  ill,  or  acled  in 
*' prejudice  of  his  integrity,  good-nature,  or  worth,  would  of 
''neceifity,  a£l  with  greater  cruelty  towards  himfclf,  than  he 
**  who  fcrupled  not  to  fwallow  what  was  poifonous,  or  who, 
*' with  his  own  hands,  fhould  voluntarily  mantrleor  wounii  his 
*'  outward  form  or  conditution,  natural  limbs  or  body."*  Hero, 
to  commit  a  bad  a£tion,  is,  firft, "  To  remove  a  good  and  or- 
*'  derly  alFe£lion,  and  to  introduce  an  ill  or  difordcrly  one  ;" 
next,  it  is,  "  To  commit  an  aftiou  that  is  ill,  immoral,  and  un- 
"  jull  j"  and  in  the  next  line,  it  is,  "  To  do  ill,  or  to  a£l  in  prej- 
*'  udice  of  integrity,  good-nature,  and  worth ;"  nay,  fo  very 
ilmple  a  thing  as  a  man's  wounding  himfclf,  is,  "  To  mangle, 
*'or  wound,  his  outward  form  and  conditution,  his  natural 
*'  limbs  or  body."  Such  fuperfluity  of  words  is  difguflful  to 
every  reader  of  correal  tafle  ;  and  ferves  no  purpofe  but  to  em- 
barrafs  and  perplex  the  feufe.  This  fort  of  Style  is  elegantly 
defcribed  by  Qaintilian,  "  Ed  in  quibufdam  turba  inaniunx 
'^  vcrborum,qui  dum  communem  loquendi  morem  reformidant, 
*'  d\i£ti  fpecie  nitoris,  circumeunt  omnia  copiofa  loquacitate  qux 
**  dicere  volunt.f     Lib.  vii.  cap.  2. 

The  great  fource  of  a  loofe  Style,  in  oppofition  to  Precifion, 
is  the  injudicious  ufe  of  thofe  words  termed  fynonimous. 
They  are  called  fynonimous,  becaufe  they  agree  in  exprefTing 
one  principal  idea  ;  but,  for  the  mod  part,  if  not  always,  tliey 
exprefs  it  with  fome  diverfity  in  the  circumdatices.  They  are 
varied  by  fome  acceflUrv  idea  which  every  word  introduces,  and 
■which  forms  the  didin6lion  between  them.  Hardly,  in  any 
Language,  are  there  two  words  that  convey  precifely  the  fame 
idea  j  a  pcrfon  thorouglily  converfant  in  the  propriety  of  the 
Language,  will  always  be  able  to  obfcrve  fomething  that  dif- 
tinguidies  them.  As  tliey  are, like  diiFerent  fliades  of  the  fame 
colour,  an  accurate  writer  can  employ  them  to  great  advantage, 

by 

•  CharaAerifl:.     Vol.  II.  p.  85.  , 

^  «•  A  crowd  of  unmeaning  words  is  brought  together,  hy  fome  authors,  who^ 
"  afraid  of  expreding  theinfclrcs  after  a  common  and  ordinary  manner,  and  al- 
"  lured  by  an  appearance  of  fplcndour,  furrouiid  every  thing  which  they  mcaa 
"  to  lay  with  a  certain  copious  loquacity." 


Lect.X.  >  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  13^ 

by  ufing  them,  fo  as  to  heighten  and  to  finifli  the  pl£tiire  which 
he  gives  us.  He  fupplies  by  one,  what  was  wanting  in  the 
other,  to  the  force,  or  to  the  luftre  of  the  image  which  he  means 
to  exhibit.  But,  in  order  to  this  end,  he  mud  be  extremely 
attentive  to  the  choice  which  he  makes  of  them.  For  the  bulk 
of  writers  are  very  apt  to  confound  them  with  each  other  ;  and 
to  employ  them  carelefsly,  merely  for  the  fake  of  filling  up  a 
period,  or  of  rounding  and  diverfifying  the  Language,  as  if 
their  fignification  were  exactly  the  fame,  while,  in  truth,  it  is 
not.  Hence  a  certain  milt  and  indiilin£lnefs  is  unwarily  thrown 
over  Style. 

In  the  Latin  Language,  there  are  no  two  words  wc  would 
more  readily  take  to  be  fynonimous,  than  ajnare  and  diligere. 
Cicero,  however,  has  {hewn  us,  that  there  is  a  very  clear  dif- 
tindion  betwixt  them.  "  Quid  ergo,"  fays  he,  in  one  of  his  epif- 
tles,  "  tibi  commendem  cum  quern  tu  ipfe  diligis?  Sed  tamen 
*'  ut  fcires  eum  non  a  me  di/igi  folum,  verum  etiam  amarif  ob  earn 
*'  rem  tibi  hoec  fcrib(>."*  In  the  fame  manner  tutus  znd  fecun/s, 
are  words  which  we  would  readily  confound  ;  yet  their  mean- 
ing is  diflerent,  Tulusy  Hgnilies  out  of  danger  •,  fecurus,  free 
from  the  dread  of  it.  Seneca  has  elegantly  marked  this  diftinc- 
tion  j  "  Tuta  fcelera  cfTe  poffiint,  fccura  non  pofrunt."f  In  our 
own  Language,  very  many  inftances  might  be  given  of  a  differ- 
ence in  meaning  among  words  reputed  fynonimous  *,  and,  as 
the  fubjeft  19  of  importance,  I  fliall  now  point  out  fome  of 
thefe.  The  inftances  which  I  am  to  give,  may  themfelves  be 
of  ufe  ;  and  they  will  fcrve  to  ihew  the  necclllty  of  attending, 
with  care  and  ftri<Slnefs,  to  the  exa<fl:  import  of  words,  if  ever 
we  would  write  with  Propriety  or  Precifion. 

Aiijlerity,  Sevtri/y,  Rigour.  Aufterity,  relates  to  the  manner 
of  living;  Severity,  of  thinking ;  Rigour,  of  punifning.  ToAuf- 
terity,  is  oppofcd  Effeminacy  ;  to  Severity,  Relaxation  ;  to 
Rigour,  Clemency.  A  Elermit,  is  auftcre  in  his  life  ;  a  cafu- 
ift,  fevere  in  his  application  of  religion  or  law  ;  a  Judge,  rigor- 
ous in  his  fentenccs. 

Cujhm,  Habit.  Cuflom,  refpc<J^s  tlic  a<flion  ;  Habit,  the  a£lor. 
By  Cuftom,  we  mean  the  frequent  repetition  of  the  fame  a£l  j 
by  Habit,  the  efledl  which  that  repetition  produces  on  the  mind 

or 
•  Ad  Famil.  I.  13,  cp.  47.  |  Tplj.  97. 


140  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  Lect.  X. 

cr  body.     By  the  Cuftom  of  walking  often  in  the  (Ireets,  one 
acquircb  a  Habit  of  idlenefs. 

Surprifi-d,  ojlomfrjed^  amazed,  covfoufided.  I  am  fiuprifed,  with 
what  is  new  or  unexpected  ;  1  am  aflonifbed,  at  what  is  vafl  or 
great ;  I  am  amnzed,  with  what  is  incomprehenfiblc  •,  I  am 
confounded,  by  what  is  Ihocking  or  terrible. 

DefJ},  renounce^  qtdty  leave  off.  Each  of  thefe  words  imply 
fome  purfuit  or  objecT.  relinquifhed  •,  but  from  different  motives. 
We  defill,  from  tlie  difficulty  of  accompli  filing.  We  renounce, 
on  account  of  the  difagreeablenefs  of  the  objeft,  or  purfuit. 
We  quit,  for  ihe  fake  of  fome  other  thing  which  interefts  us 
more  j  and  we  leave  off,  bccaufe  we  are  weary  of  the  defign. 
A  politician  defifls  from  his  defigns,  when  he  finds  they  are 
impra£licnble  j  he  renounces  the  court,  bccaufe  he  has  been 
affronted  by  it;  he.  quit.i  ambition  for  {lutiy  or  retirement; 
and  leaves  off  his  attendance  on  the  great,  as  he  becomes  old 
and  weary  of  it. 

Prule,  Vanhy.  Pride,  makes  us  efleem  ourfelves  ;  Vanity, 
makes  us  defire  the  eftecm  of  others.  It  is  jufl  to  fay,  as 
Dean  Swift  has  done,  that  a  man  is  too  proud  to  be  vain. 

Haught'wefsy  Difdain.  Haughtinefs,  is  founded  on  the  high 
opinion  we  entertain  of  ourfelves  ;  Difdain,  on  the  low  opinion 
we  have  of  others. 

To  d''Jlingmfn^  to  feparate.  We  diflingulfh,  what  we  want 
not  to  confound  with  another  thing  ;  we  feparate,  what  we 
want  to  remove  from  it.  ObjctCls  are  dlftinguiflied  from  one 
another,  by  their  qualities.  Ihey  are  fcparatcd,  by  the  dif- 
tance  of  time  or  place. 

To  ireaf-y,  to  faiigue.  The  continuance  of  the  fame  thing 
wearies  us  •,  labour  fatigues  us.  I  am  weary  with  (landing  ; 
I  am  fatigued  with  walking.  A  fuitor  wearies  us  by  his  per- 
fcverance  ;  fatigues  us  by  his  importunity. 

To  ahhof'y  to  deiejl.  To  abhor,  imports,  {imply,  flrong  dif- 
like. ;  to  deteft,  imports  alfo-  ftrong  difapprobation.  One  ab- 
hors being  in  debt  ;  he  detefls  treachery.  •  v 

To  itivenii  to  difcover.  We  mvent  things  that  are  new  ;  we 
difcovcr  what  was  before  hidden.  Galileo  invented  the  tele- 
fcope ;  Harvey  difcovered  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 

C/.'/v, 


Lect.  X.  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  141 

0,7/v,  alom.  Only,  imports  that  there  is  no  other  of  ^thc 
Ilmie  kind  ;  alone,  imports  being  accompanied  by  no  other- 
An  only  child,  is  one  who  has  neither  brother  nor  fifter  -,  a 
child  alone,  is  one  who  is  left  by  itfelf.  Tj^iere  is  a  difference, 
therefore,  in  precife  Language,  betwixt  thefe  two  phrafes, 
*'  Virtue  only  makes  us  happy  ;"  and,  "  Virtue  alone  makes 
*'  us  happy."  Virtue  only  makes  us  happy,  imports,  that 
nothing  elfe  can  do  it.  Virtue  alone  makes  us  happy,  imports, 
that  virtue,  by  itfelf,  or  unaccompanied  with  other  advantages, 
is  fuflicient  to  do  it. 

Entirey  Complete.  A  thing  is  entire,  by  wanting  none  of  its 
parts  ;  complete,  by  wanting  none  of  the  appendages  that  be- 
long to  it.  A  man  may  have  an  entire  houfc  to  himfelf ;  and 
yet  not  have  one  complete  apartment. 

Tratiquillity,  Pence^  Colm.  Tranquillity,  refpccls  a  fituation 
free  from  trouble,  confidered  in  itfelf;  Peace,  the  fame  Gtua- 
tion  with  refpecl  to  any  caufcs  that  might  interrupt  it  ;  Calm, 
with  regard  to  a  diflurbcd  fituation  going  before,  or  following 
it.  A  good  man  enjoys  Tranquillity  in  himfelf  j  Peace,  with 
others  j  and  Calm,  after  the  florm. 

A  DJficuhy,  an  Ohjlacle.  A  Difficulty,  embarraffes  ;  an 
Obftacle,  (lops  us.  We  remove  the  one  ;  we  furmount  the 
other.  Generally,  the  firft,  exprefi'es  fomewhat  arifing  from 
the  nature  and  circumftances  of  the  affair ;  the  fecond,  fome- 
what arifing  from  a  foreign  caufe.  Philip  found  Difficulty  in 
managing  the  Athenians  from  the  nature  of  their  difpofitions  ; 
but*  the  eloquence  of  Demollhenes  was  thegreatefl  Obilacle  to 
his  defigns. 

Wifdom^  Prudence.  Wifdom,  leads  us  to  fpeak  and  a£l  what 
is  moft  proper.  Prudence,  prevents  our  fpeaking  or  adiling 
improperly.  A  wife  man,  employs  the  moft  proper  means  for 
fuccefs  ;  a  prudent  man,  the  fafell  means  for  not  being  brought 
into  danger. 

Enough^  Siijjficlent.  Enough,  relates  to  the  quantity  which 
one  wiflies  to-'have  of  any  thiiig.  Sufficient,  relates  to  the 
ufe  that  is  to  be  made  of  it.  Hence,  Enough,  generally  im- 
ports a  greater  quantity  than  Sufficient  does.  The  covetous 
man  never  has  enough  j  although  he  has  what  is  fufficient  for 
nature. 

To 


14X  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  Lect.  X, 

'  To  nvswj  to  nchnoivledge^  to  cotiftfs.  Each  of  thefe  words  im- 
ports the  affirmation  of  a  fadl,  but  in  very  different  circum- 
Itanci'S.  To  avow,  fuppofes  the  perfon  to  glory  in  it  j  to  ac- 
knowledge, fuppofes  a  fmall  degree  of  faultincfs,  which  the  ac- 
knowledgment compenfates ;  to  confefs,  fuppofes  a  higher 
degree  of  crime.  A  patriot  avows  his  oppofition  to  a  bad  min- 
ifter,  and  is  applauded  ;  a  gentleman  acknowledges  his  miftake, 
and  is  forgiven  ;  a  prifoner  confexTes  the  crime  lie  is  accufed 
of,,  and  is  puniflied. 

To  remark,  to  ohftrve.  We  remark,  in  the  way  of  attention^ 
in  order  to  remember  j  we  obferve,  in  the  way  of  examination, 
in  order  to  judge.  A  traveller  remarks  the  moft  (Iriking  objedls- 
he  fees  \  a  general  obferves  all  the  motions  of  his  enemy. 

Equivocal,  Ambiguous.  An  Equivocal  Exprcffion  is,  one 
which  has  one  fenfe  open,  and  defigned  to  be  underftood  j  an- 
other fenfe  concealed,  and  underflood  only  by  the  perfon  who* 
ufes  it.  An  Ambiguous  Expreflion  is,  one  which  has  apparent- 
ly two  fenfes,  and  leaves  us  at  a  lofs  Vv'hich  of  them  to  give  iti 
An  Equivocal  Expreffion  is  ufed  with  an  intention  to  deceive  ; 
an  Ambiguous  one,  when  it  is  ufed  with  defign,  is,  with  an 
intention  not  to  give  full  information.  An  honeft  man  will 
never  employ  an  Equivocal  Expreffion  y  a  confufed  man  may 
often  utter  Ambiguous  ones,  without  any  defign.  Ifliall  give 
only  one  inftance  more. 

Withy  By.  Both  thefe  particles  exprefs '  tlic  connexion 
between  fome  inftrument,  or  means  of  effedting  an  end,  and 
the  agent  who  employs  it :  but  ivitb^  exprellcs  a  more  clofe 
and  immediate  connexion  ;  by,  a  more  remote  one.  We  kill 
a.  man  ivith  a  fword  ;  he  dies  by  violence.  The  criminal  is 
IjoundW//^  ropes  by  the  executioner.  The  proper  diftiii6lion. 
in  the  ufc  of  thefe  particles,  is  elegantly  marked  in  a  paffage  of 
Dr.  Roberfon's  Hiftory  of  Scotland.  When  one  of  the  old 
Scottifh  kings  was  making  an  inquiry  into  the  tenure  by  which 
his  nobles  held  their  lands,  they  ftarted  up,  and  drew  their 
fwords  ;  "  By  thefe,"  faid  they,  "  we  acquired  our  lands,  and 
*'  ivith  thefe  we  will  defend  them."  *'  By  thefe  we  acquired 
*'  our  lands  ;"  fignifies  the  more  remote  means  of  acquifition  by 
force  and  martial  deeds  5  and,  "  -with  thefe  we  will  defend 

*'  them  ;'* 


Lect.  X.  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  143 

**  them  ;"  fignifies  the  imniediat'^  direct  inftrument,  the  fwt)rd, 
which  tlicy  would  employ  in  their  defence. 

Thcfe  arc  inilances  of  words,  in  ouv  Language,  which,  by 
carelcfs  writers,  arc  apt  to  be  employed  as  perfe£tly  fynoni- 
inous,  and  yet  are  not  fo.  Their  fignifications  approach,  but 
are  notprecifely  the  fame.  The  more  the  diflindion  in  the 
meaning  of  fuch  words  is  weighed,  and  attended  to,  the  more 
clearly  and  forcibly  fiiall  we  fpeak  or  write.* 

From  all  that  has  been  faid  on  this  head.  It  will  now  appear, 
that,  in  order  to  write  or  fpeak  with  Precifion,  two  things  arc 
efpecially  requifitc ;  one,  that  an  author's  own  ideas  be  clear 
and  diftinft ;  and  the  other,  that  we  have  an  exaft  and  full 
comprehenfion  of  the  force  of  thofe  words  which  he  employs*  I 
Natural  genius  is  here  required  ;  labour  and  attention  ilill 
more.  Dean  Swift  is  one  of  the  authors,  in  our  Language, 
rcoll  diftinguiflied  for  Prccifion  of  Style.  In  his  writings,  we 
feldom  or  never  find  vague  expreflions,  and  fynonimous  words» 
carelefsly  thrown  together.  His  meaning  is  always  clear,  and 
ftrongly  marked.  '*«!» 

I  had  occafion  to  obferve  bef^,  that  thougb  all  fuhje<^s  o£ 
writing  or  difcourfe  demand  Perfpicuity,  yet  all  do  not  require 
the  fame  degree  of  that  exa£i:  Precifion,  which  I  have  endeav- 
oured to  explain.  It  is,  indeed,  in  every  fort  of  writing,  a 
great  beauty  to  have,  at  leaft,  fome  meafure  of  Precifion,  in 
diftinflion  from  that  Joofe  profufion  of  words  which  imprints 
no  clear  idea  on  the  reader's  nilad.  But  we  muft,  at  the  uuxxi 
time,  be  on  our  guard,  left  too  great  a  ftudy  of  Precifion,  efpec- 
ially in  fubje(9:s  where  it  is  not  llriQly  requifitc,  betray  us  into 
a  dry  and  barren  Style  j  left,  from  tlie  defire  of  pruning  toe 
■clofely,  we  retrench  all  copioufnefs  and  ornament.  Some  de- 
gree 

*  In  French,  there  is  a  very  ufcful  trcatifc  on  tins  fiibjc<5V,  tlic  Ahbf 
Girard's  Synonyma  rram^oifis,  in  which  lie  li*;  made  a  large  coilctT.ion  of  fiicfi 
apparent  Hynonynies  in  the  Langiingc,  and  fliown,  with  much  accuracy,  the 
difference  in  their  fignification.  It  were  mucli  to  l>e  wiHird,  that  fome  fuch 
work  were  undertaken  for  our  touj^ue,  and  crccutcd  with  equal  tafle  and 
judgment.  Nothing  would  contribute  more  to  precife  and  elegant  writing. 
In  the  mean  time,  this  French  Trcatife  may  be  perufcd  with  confiderablc 
profit.  It  \vill  accuftom  pcrfons  to  weigh,  with  attention,  the  force  of  words: 
and  ivill  fugf;efl  fcveral  diflintflions  betwixt  fynonimous  terms  in  our  own 
Langyaj^,  analogtms  to  thofe  wliich  he  has  pointed  cut  in  the  French;  and, 
accordingly,  fevcral  of  the  inflanccs  above  given  were  fugge^Qcd  by  the  work 
of  t]xii  author. 


144  PRECISION  IN  S  iTLE.  Lect.  X. 

gree  of  this  failing  may,  perhaps,  bercnvArkcd  in  Dean  Swift's 
ferious  works.  Attentive  only  to  exhibit  his  iJeas  clear  and 
cxaifi,  refting  wholly  on  his  fenfe  and  diftinftnefs,  he  appears 
torejcc^^,  difJainfully,  all  embellifhment,  which,  on  fomc  occa- 
fions,  may  be  thought  to  render  his  manner  fomewhat  hard  and 
dry.  To  unite  together  Copioufnefs  and  Precifion,  to  be  flow- 
ing and  graceful,  and,  at  the  fame  time,  correal  and  exa6t  in  the 
choice  of  every  word,  is,  no  doubt,  one  of  the  higheft  and  moft 
difficult  attainm'ents  in  writing.  Some  kinds  of  compofitioii 
may  require  more  of  Copioufnefs  and  ornament ;  others,  more 
of  Precifion  and  Accuracy  ;  nay,  in  the  fame  compofition,  the 
different  parts  of  it  may  demand  a  proper  variation  of  manner. 
But  we  mufl  (ludy  never  to  facrifice,  totally,  any  one  of  tliefe 
qualities  to  the  other;  and,  by  a  proper  management,  both  of 
them  maybe  made  fully  confident,  if  our  own  ideas  be  precife, 
and  our  knowledge  and  ftock  of  words  be,  at  the  fame  time, 
extenfivc. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        XL 


STPvUCTURE   OF    SENTENCES. 

ri  AVING  begun  to  trent  of  Style,  In  the  laft  Le6lure 
I  confidered  its  fundamental  quality,  Perfpicuity.  What  I  have 
faid  of  this,  relates  chiefly  to  the  choice  of  words.  From 
words  f  proceed  to  Sentences  ;  and  as,  in  all  writing  and  dif- 
courfe,  the  proper  corapofition  aKdStru£lure  of  Sentences  is  of 
the  highed  importance,  I  fhall  treat  of  this  fully.  Though 
Perfpicuity  be  the  general  head  under  which  I,  at  prefent,  con- 
fidcr  Language,  I  fhall  not  confine  myfelf  to  this  quahty  aJone^ 
in  Sentences,  but  fljall  inquire  alfo,  what  is  requifite  for  their 
Grace  and  Beauty :  that  I  may  bring  together,  under  one  view, 
all  that  feems  neceflary  to  be  attended  to  in  the  conftruiSlioix 
and  arrangement  of  words  in  a  Sentence. 

It  is  not  eafy  to  give  an  exaft  dcfiniticn  of  2  Sentence,  or 
Period,  farther,  than  as  it  always  implies  fome  one  complete 
propofition  or  enunciation  of  thought.  I  Arillotle's  definition 
is,  in  the  main,  a  good  one  :  "  Ae^f  i^wx  a^vw  Koct  TiKi-jjYiv  y.cth 
"  &.vTr.i/,  y.y.i  f^iyi^oi;  vj7'^yo7rTOY  ;"  "  A  form  of  Speech  which  hath 
**  a  beginning  and  an  end  within  itfelf,  and  is  of  fuch  a  length 
*'  as  to  be  eafily  comprehended  at  once."  This,  however,  ad- 
mits of  great  latitude.  For  a  Sentence,  or  Period,  confifls  al- 
ways of  component  parts,  which  are  called  its  members  ;  and 
as  thefe  members  may  be  either  few  or  many,  and  may  be  con- 
nected in  feveral  different  ways,  the  f.irne  thought,  or  mental- 
propofition,  may  often  be  either  brought  into  one  Sentence,  or 
fplit  into  two  or  three,  without  the  material  breach  of  any  rule. 

The   firll  variety  that   occurs  in   the  confideration  of  Sen- 
tences, is,  the  diftindion  of  long  and  fliort  ones.'  •'  The  precife 
length  of  Sentences,  as  to  the  number  of  words,  or  the  number 
C>f  members,  which  may  enter  into  them,  cannot  be  afcertained 
U  by 


145  STRUCTURE  OF  SEN^TENCES.     Lect.  XI. 

by  .any  definite  meafure.  Only,  It  is  obvious,  there  nny  be  an 
extreme  on  either  fide.  Sentences,  immoderately  lone;,  and 
confifting  of  too  many  members,  always  tranfgrefs  fame  one 
or  other  of  the  rules  which  I  fhall  mention  foon,  as  iiecefTary 
to  be  obferved  in  every  good  Sentence.  In  difcourfes  that  are 
to  be  fpokcn,  reg.ird  mu:t  be  !\id  to  the  eafinefs  of  pronuncia- '''(^ 
tion,  which  is  not  confident  with  too  long  periods.  In  coni- 
pofitions  where  pronunciation  lias  no  place,  ftill,  however,  by 
ufing  long  periods  too  frequently,  an  author  overloads  the  read- 
er's ear,  and  fatigues  his  attention.  For  long  periods  require, 
evidently,  more  attention  than  fliort  ones,  In  order  to  perceive 
clearly  the  connexion  of  the  feveral  parts,  and  to  take  in  the 
■whole  at  one  view.  At  the  fame  time,  there  may  be  an  excefs 
in  too  many  fnort  Sentences  alfo  ;  by  which  the  fenfe.Is  fplit 
and  broken,  the  connexion  of  thought  weakened,  and  the  mem- 
ory burdened,  by  prefenting  to  it  a  long  fuccefliou  of  n^inute 
objects. 

With  regard  to  the  length  and  conftrufiblon  of  Sentences, 
the  French  critics  make  a  very  jull  diftinclion  of  Style,  into 
Stile  Perlodiqiie,  and  Style  Coupe.  The  Style  Penodtqtte  is,  where 
the  Sentences  are  corapofed  of  feveral  members  linked  together, 
and  hanging  upon  one  another  ;  fo  that  the  fenfe  of  the  whole 
is  not  brought  out  till  the  clofe.  This  is  the  moft  pompous, 
mufical,  and  oratorical  manner  of  compofing  ;  as  in  the  follow- 
ing fentence  of  Sir  William  Temple  :  "  If  you  look  about  you, 
"  and  confider  the  lives  of  others  as  well  as  your  own  ;  if  you 
*'  think  how  few  are  born  with  honour,  and  how  many  die 
"  without  name  oi*  children  ;  how  little  beauty  we  fee,  and 
**  how  few  friends  we  hear  of  ;  hew  many  difeafes,  and  how 
**  much  poverty  there  is  in  the  world  ;  you  will  fall  down  up^ 
*'  on  your  knees,  and,  inftead  of  repining  at  one  afflitlion,  will 
**  admire  fo  many  blefTmgs  which  you  have  received  from  the 
"  hand  of  God."  (Letter  to  Lady  EiTex.)  Cicero  abounds, 
with  Sentences  conftruded  after  this  manner. 

The  S/i/^*  Coupe  is,  where  the  ilcn^Q  is  formed  Into  fhort  in.. 
dependent  propofitionr,  each  complete  w-lthin  itfelf  ;  as  in  the 
following  of  Mr.  P'ope  :  "  I  confefs,  it  was  want  of  confulera^ 
**  tion  that  made  me  an  author.  I  writ,  becaufe  it  amufed  me, 
•^  I  corredlcd,  becaufe  it  was  as  pleafant  to  me  to  correct  as  to 

*'  write. 


Lect.  XI.     STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  147 

**  write.  I  publlflied,  becaufe,  I  was  told,  I  might  pleafe  fuch 
**  as  it  was  a  credit  to  pleafe."  (Preface  to  his  works.)  This 
is  very  much  the  French  method  of  writing  j  and  always  fuits 
gay  and  eafy  fubje£ls.  The  Stile  Periodique,  gives  an  air  of 
grnvity  and  dignity  to  compofition.  ITie  Stik  Coupe,  is  more 
lively  and  flriking.  According  to  the  nature  of  the  compofi- 
tion, therefore,  and  the  general  charadler  it  ought  to  bear,  the 
one  or  other  may  be  predominant.  But,  in  almoft  every  kind 
of  compofition,  the  great  rule  is  to  intermix  them.  For  the  ear 
tires  of  either  of  them  when  too  long  contmued  :  whereas,  by 
a  proper  mixture  of  long  and  fliort  periods,  the  ear  is  gratified, 
and  a  certain  fprightlinefs  is  joined  with  majelly  in  our  ftyle. 
*'  Non  femper,"  fays  Cicero  (defcribing  very  expreffively,  thefc 
two  different  kinds  of  Style,  of  v/hich  I  have  been  fpeaking) 
■"  non  femper  utendum  eft:  perpetuitate,  &  quafi  converfione 
**  verborum  j  fed  fsepe  carpenda  membris  minutioribus  oratio 
«  eft."*- 

This  variety  is  of  Co  great  confequence,  that  it  muft  be  fi-udi- 
ed,  not  only  in  the  fuccefllon  of  long  and  fhort  Sentences,  but 
in  the  Stru«£lure  of  our  Sentences  alfo.  A  train  of  Sentences, 
conft:ructed  in  the  fame  manner,  and  with  the  fame  number  of 
members^  whether  long  or  fliort,  fhould  never  be  allowed  to 
fucceed  one  another.  However  mufical  each  of  them  may  be, 
it  has  a  better  effc£t  to  introduce  even  a  difcord,  than  to  cloy, 
the  ear  with  the  repetition  of  fimilar  founds  :  For,  nothing  is  fo- 
tirefome  as  perpetual  uniformity.  /  In  this  article  of  the  con- 
ftruclion  and  dillribution  of  his  Sentences,  Lord  Shaftefbury 
has  (liown  great  art.  In  the  laft  Ledure,  I  obferved,  that  he 
is  often  guilty  of  facrificing  precifion  of  ftyle  to  pomp  of  exprcf- 
fion ;  and  that  there  runs  through  hi^  whole  manner,  a  fliffnefs 
and  afieflation,  which  render  him  very  unfit  to  be  confidered' 
as  a  general  model.  But,  as  his  ear  was  fine,  and  as  he  was 
extremely  attentive  to  every  thing  that  is  elegant,  he  has  ftudi- 
ed  the  proper  intermixture  of  long  and  Ihort  Sentences,  with 
variety  and  harmony  in  their  ftru£lure,  more  than  any  other 
Knglini  author  ;  and  for  this  part  of  compofition  he  deferves  at- 
tention. From. 

•  "  It  is  not  proper  always  to  employ  a  continued  tr.-jn,  and  a  fort  of  rcj-. 
"  iilar  coinpafs  of  phrafcs  ;  but  (lylc  ought  to  be  oftta  brokcu  down  iuto. 
"  i'mallcr  members." 


148  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.     Lect.  XI. 

From  thefe  general  cbfervations,  let  us  now  defcend  to  a 
more  particular  ccnfideration  of  the  qualities  that  are  required 
to  make  a  Sentence  perfedt.  So  much  depends  upon  tlie  prop- 
er con(lru£tion  of  Sentences,  that,  in  every  fort  of  compofition, 
we  cannot  be  too  flridl  in  our  attentions  to  it.  For,  be  the  fub- 
jeft  what  it  will,  if  the  Sentences  be  con{lt-u£led  in  a  clumfy, 
perplexed  or  feeble  manner,  it  is  impofiible  that  a  work,  com- 
pofed  of  fuch  Sentences,  can  be  read  with  plcafure,  or  even  with 
profit.  Whereas,  by  giving  attention  to  the  rules  which  relate 
to  this  part  of  flyle,  we  acquire  the  habit  of  exprefling  ourfelves 
with  Perfpiculty  and  Elegance  ;  and,  if  a  diforder  chance  to 
arife  in  fome  of  our  Sentences,  we  immediately  fee  where  it 
lies,  and  are  able  to  redlify  it.* 
'  The  properties  moll  eflential  to  a  perfedl  Sentence,  feem  to 
me,  the  four  following  :  i.  Clearnefs  and  Precifion.  2.  Unity, 
3.  Strength.  4.  Harmony.  Each  of  thefe  I  fliall  illuftratc 
fcparatcly,  and  at  fome  length.  \ 

The  iirit  is,  Clearnefs  and  Precifion.  The  leaft  failure 
here,  the  leaft  degree  of  ambiguity,  which  leaves  the  mind  in 
any  fort  of  fufpenfe  as  to  the  meaning,  ought  to  be  avoided 
with  the  greatefl  care  ;  nor  is  it  fo  cafy  a  matter  to  keep  al- 
ways clear  of  this,  as  one  might,  at  firfl,  imagine.  Ambigui- 
ty arifes  from  two  caufes  :  either  from  a  wrong  choice  of  words, 
or  a  wrong  collocation  of  them,  i  Of  the  choice  of  words,  as 
far  as  regards  Perfpiculty,  I  treated  fully  in  the  lall  Ledlure. 
Of  the  collocation  of  them,  1  am  now  to  treat.  The  firll  thing 
to  be  fludied  here  is,  to  obfcrve  exaOly  the  rules  of  grammarj 
as  far  as  thefe  can  guide  us.  But  as  the  grammar  of  our  Lan- 
guage is  not  extendve,  there  may  often  be  an  ambiguous  collo- 
cation of  words,  where  there  is  no  tranfgrefhon  of  any  gram- 
matical rule.     The  relations  which  the  words,  or  members  of 

a  period, 

*  On  the  Stnitflure  of  Sentcnccy,  the  ancients  appfsr  to  Iiave  ht/lcArrd  a 
great  deal  of  atttnrion  and  care.  The  'J'leHtiie  of  LVniclrius  I-})alcruis  -njj 
E^/xmita;,  abnunds  with  obfer  vat  ions  upon  the  choice  and  coilocaticn  of  \vf>rds 
carried  to  fuch  a  deoree  of  nicety  as  wotild  frcC'ientiv'  ic<m  to  u.s  iniunte. 
The  Trcdtife  of  Dionyfius  of  HalicarnafTus,  vigt  c-witcnui  mcaart^v,  h  more  tnaf- 
terly  ;  but  is  chiefly  confined  to  the  niufical  ftru»5liir(  of  periods ;  a  fubje^,  for 
which  the  Greek  Language  aflbrded  much  more  afljitance  to  their  writeis, 
than  our  Tongue  admits.  On  the  arrangement  of  words,  in  Engiifli  Sentences, 
the  xviiitli  chapter  of  Lord  Kaim's  Elements  of  Ciiticifm  ought  to  be  confult- 
td ;  and  alfo,  the  2d  Volume  of  Dr.  CauipbcH's  Phliofi>phy  ot  lUictoiic. 


I^EGT.  XI.     STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  149 

a  period,  bear  to  one  another,  cannot  be  pointed  out  in  EngHfh, 
as  in  the  Gretk  or  Latin,  by  means  of  termination ;  it  is  afcer- 
tained  only  by  the  pofition  in  which  they  Itand.  Hence  a  cap* 
ital  rule  in  the  arrangement  of  Sentences  is,  that  the  words  or 
members  mofl  nearly  related,  (liould  be  placed  in  the  Sentence, 
as  near  to  each  other  as  poiTible  j  fo  as  to  make  their  mutual 
relation  clearly  appear.  This  is  a  rule  not  always  obferved,  even 
by  good  writers,  as  Ilri^tly  as  it  ought  to  be.  It  will  be  necef- 
fary  to  produce  iome  inlTiances,  which  will  both  fiiow  the  im- 
portance of  this  rule,  and  make  the  application  of  it  to  be  un« 
derltood. 

Firft,  In  the  pofition  of  adverbs,  which  are  ufed  to  qualify 
the  lignification  of  fomething  which  either  precedes  or  fol- 
lows them,  tlicrc  is  often  a  good  deal  of  nicetj^.  :  *"By  great- 
"  ncfs,"(rays  Mr.  Addiion»  in  tli£  Spectator,  No.  412.)  "I  dd 
*'  not  only  mean  the  bulk  of  any  fingle  object,  but  the  largenefs 
**  of  a  whole  view."  Here  the  place  of  the  adverb  ctJy,  renders 
it  a  limitation  of  the  following  word,  mean.  *'I  do  not  only 
**  mean."  The  queftion  may  then  be  put.  What  does  he 
inore  than  mean  ?  Had  he  placed  it  after  bulky  flill  it  would 
have  been  wrong.  "  I  do  not  mean  the  hulk  otJy  of  any  (ingle 
"  obje^l."  For  we  might  then  alk,  What  does  he  mean  more 
than  the  bulk  ?  Is  it  the  colour  ?  Or  any  other  property  ?  Its 
proper  place,  undoubtedly,  is,  after  the  word  objecl.  "  By 
**  greatnefs,  I  do  not  mean  the  bulk  of  any  fingle  objed  only  ;** 
for  then,  when  we  put  the  queflion.  What  more  does  he  mean 
than  the  bulk  of  a  fingle  objecl  ?  The  anfwcr  comes  out  ex- 
a6lly  as  the  author  intends,  and  gives  it ;  "  The  largenefs  of  a 
"  whole  view."  "  Theifm,"  fays  Lord  Shaftefbury,  "  can  only 
**  be  oppofed  to  polythclfm,  or  athelfm."  Does  he  mean  that 
theifm  is  capable  of  nothing  elfe,  except  being  oppofed  to 
polytheifm  or  atheifni  ?  This  is  what  his  words  llter;dly  im- 
port, through  the  wrong  collocation  of  only.  He  fliould  have 
faid,  "  Theifm  can  be  oppofed  only  to  polytheifm  or  atheifm." 
In  like  manner,  Dean  Swift,  (Projc£l  for  the  advancement  of 
Religion)  "  The  Romans  underfiood  liberty,  at  Icaft,  as  well 
"  as  we."  Thefe  words  arc  capable  of  two  different  fenfcs, 
according  as  the  cmphafis,  in  reading  tl^m,  is  laid  upon  liberty^ 
or  upon  (?/  leaf}.  In  the  fivft;  calo,  they  will  fignify,  that  what- 
ever 


ISO  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.     Lect.  XT. 

€ver  other  things  we  may  undcrfland  better  than  the  Romans,, 
libeyt\y  at  leaft,  was  one  thing,  wliich  they  underftood  as  wcJF 
as  wc.  In  the  fecond  cafe,  they  will  import,  that  liberty  was 
underftood,  at  leafl  as  wfll  by  them  as  by  us  ;  meaning  that  by 
them  it  was  better  andei  ftood.  If  this  laft,  as  I  make  no  doubt, 
was  Dean  Swift's  own  meaning,  the  ambiguity  would  have  been 
avoided,  and  the  fenfe  rendered  independent  of  the  manner  of 
proivouncing,  by  arranging  the  words  thus  :  "  The  Rcm.ans  un- 
**  derftood  liberty  as  well,  at  leaft,  as  we."  The  facl  is,  with 
refpecl  to  fuch  adverbs,  as,  oTtly^  nvhollyy  at  leajly  and  the  reft  of 
that  tribe,  that  in  common  difcourfe,  the  tone  and  emphafis  we 
ufc  in  pronouncing  them)  generally  ferves  to  fiiow  their  refer- 
ence, and  to  make  the  meaning  clear ;  and  licnce,  we  acquire 
a  habit  of  throwing  them'  in  loofely  in  the  courfe  of  a  period. 
But,  in  writing,  where  a  man  fpcaks  to  the  eye,  and  not  to  the 
ear,  he  ought  to  be  more  accurate ;  and  fo  to  conneQ  thofe  ad- 
verbs with  the  word5  which  they  qualify,  as  to  gut  his  mean- 
ing out  of  doubt  upon  the  firft  infpe£lion; 

Secondly,  When  a  circumftance  is  interpofed  in  the  middle 
of  a  Sentence,  it  fometimes  requires  attention  how  to  place  it, 
fo  as  to  diveft  it  of  all  ambiguity.  For  inftaace  :  "  Are  thefe 
defigns,"  (fays  Lord  Bolingbroke,  Differ,  on  Parties,  Dedicat.)* 
*^  Are  thefe  dellgns  which  any  man,  who  is  born  a  Briton,  in 
*'  any  circumftances,  in  any  fituation,  ought  to  be  afliamcd  or 
•*  afraid  to  avow  ?"  Here  we  are  left  at  a  lofs,  whether  thefe 
■words,**  inan^circinnJiouceSy  viany  JttucittMy*  areconnedledwith, 
**  a  man  born  in  Britain,  in  any  circumftances,  or  fituation,"  or- 
M'ith  that  man's  "  avowing  his  defigns,  in  any  circumftances, 
**  or  fituation,  into  which  he  may  be  brought  ?"  If  the  latter,  as 
feems  moft  probable,  vra^  intended  to  be  the  meaning,  the  ar- 
rangement ought  to  have  been  condu£ted  thus  :  "  Are  thefe  de- 
*'  figns,  which  any  man  who  is  born  a  Briton,  ought  to  be: 
"  afhamed  or  afraid,  in  any  circumftances,  in  any  fituation,  tOt 
avow  ?"  But, 

Thirdly,  Still  more  attention  is  required  to  the  proper  difpo- 
fition  of  the  relative  pronouns,  •z//7;o,  ivhich,  nvhot,  ivhofe^  and  of 
aJl  thofe  particles  which  exprefs  the  connexion  of  the  parts  of 
Speech  with  one  another.  As  all  reafoning  depends  upon  this 
connexion,  we  cannot  be  too  accurate  and  prccife  here.     A 

fmall 


Lect.  XL    STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  it;i 

fmall  error  may  overcloud  the  meaning  of  the  whole  Sentence ; 
and  even,  where  the  meanuig  is  intelligible,  yet,  where  thefe 
relative  particles  are  out  of  their  proper  place,  we  always  find 
fomething  awkward  and  disjointed  in  the  StruQure  of  the  Sen- 
tence.    Thus,  in  the  Spectator,  (No.  54.)  "  This  kind  of  wit,'* 
fays  Mr.  Addifon,  "  was  very  much  in  vogue  among  our  coun- 
*'  trymen,  about  an  age  or  two  ago,  who  did  not  praQife  it  for 
*'  any  oblique  reafon,  but  purely  for  the  fake  of  being  witty.'* 
We  arc  at  no  lofs  about  the  meaning  here ;  but  the  conftruflioii 
would  evidently  be  mended  by  difpofing  of  the  circumflance, 
*'  about  an  age  or  two  ago,"  in  fuch  a  manner  as  not  to  fepa- 
rate  the  relative  ivho,  from  its  antecedent  our  countrymen ;  in 
tliis  way :  "  About  an  age  or  two  ago,  this  kind  of  wit  was 
**  very  much  in  vogue  among  our  countrymen,   who  did  not 
*'  prattife  it  for  any  oblique  reafon,  but  purely  for  the  fake  of 
"being  witty."     Spectator,  No.  412.     *' We  no  where  meet 
**  with  a  more  glorious  and  pleaGng  fhow  in  nature,  than  what 
**  appears  in  the  heavens  at  the  rifing  and  fetting  of  the  fun, 
*'  nvhich  is  wholly    made  up  of  thofe  different  ftains  of  light, 
"  that  fhow    themfelves  in   clouds   of  a  different   fituation." 
Whkh  is  here  defigned  to  connect  with  the  vj  or  A  JJjoio^  as  its 
antecedent ;  but  it  (lands  fo  wide  from  it,  that  without  a  care- 
ful attention  to  tiie  fenfe,  we  would  be  naturally  led,  by  the 
rules  of  fyntax,  to  refer  it  to  the  rifmg  and  fetting  of  the  fun,  or 
to  the  fun  itfelf ;  and,  hence,  an  iiidiflin£l:nefsis  thrown  over  the 
whole  Sentence.     The  following  paffage  In  Bifliop  Sherlock's 
Sermons  (Vol.  II.  Serm.    15.)  is   ftill  more  cenfurable  :  "  It  is 
**  folly  to  pretend  to  arm  ourfelves  againft  the  accidents  of  life, 
*'  by  heaping  up  trcafures,  which  nothing  can  prote£l  us  againft, 
**  but  the  good  providence  of  our  heavenly  Father."     Whichf 
always  refers  grammatically  to  the  immediately  preceding  fub- 
ftantive,  which  here  is,  *'  trcafures  ;"  and  this  would  make  non- 
fenfe  of  the  whole  period.     Every  one  feels  this  impropriety. 
The  Sentence  ought  to  have  flood  thus:  "  It  Is  folly  to  pretend, 
**  by  heaping  up  trcafures,  to  arm  ourfelves  againft  the  accidents 
"  of  life,  which  nothing  can  protccl  us  againft  but  the  good 
**  providence  of  our  heavenly  Father." 

Of  the  like  nature  is  the  following  inaccuracy  of  Dean  Swift's* 
He  Is  recommending  to  young  clergyman,  to  writetheir  fcrmona 

fully 


sjz  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.     Lect.  XL 

ftillyand  dlftindly.  "  Many,"  fays  he,  "  a£l  fo  directly  contrary 
•*  to  this  method,  that,  from  a  habit  of  fiving  time  and  paper, 
**  which  they  acquired  at  the  univcrfity,  they  write  in  fo  dimin- 
•'  utive  a  manner,  that  they  can  hardly  read  what  they  have 
"  written."  He  ccTtainly  does  not  mean,  that  they  had  acquir- 
ed time  and  paper  at  the  univerfity,  but  they  had  acquired 
this  habit  there;  and  therefore  his  words  ouglit  to  have  run  thus : 
**  From  a  habit,  v/liichthey  liave  acquired  at  theuniverHty,  of  fav- 
"  hig  tirnc  and  paper,  they  write  info  diminutive  a  manner.'*  In 
another  pafTage,  the  fame  a-uthor  has  left  his  meaning  ahogether 
uncertain,  by  niifplacing  a  relative.  It  is  in  the  conclufion  of" 
his  lette/  to  a  member  of  parhament,  concerning  the  fiicrament- 
al  tefl: :  **  Thus  I  have  fairly  given  you,  Sir,  my  own  opinion,  as 
**  well  as  that  of  a  great  majority  of  both  houfes  here,  relating 
**  to  this  weighty  affair  ;  upon  which  I  am  confident  you  may 
•*  fecurely  reckon."  Now  I  aHc,  What  it  is  he  would  liave  his 
correfpondent  to  reckon  upon,  fecurely  ?  The  natural  conflr ac- 
tion leads  to  thefe  words,  "  this  weighty  afEiir."  But,  as  it 
would  be  difBcuIt  to  make  any  fenfe  of  this,  it  is  more  proba- 
ble he  meant  that  the  majority  of  both  houfes  might  be  fecurely 
reckoned  upon  ;  though  certainly  this  meaning,  as  the  words 
are  arranged,  is  obfcurely  exprefled.  The  fentence  would  be 
amended  by  arranging  it  thus  :  "Thus,  Sir,  I  have  given  you  my 
•*  own  opinion,  relating  to  this  weighty  affair,  as  well  as  that 
*'  of  a  great  majority  of  both  houfes  here  ;  upon  which  f  am 
•*  confident  you  may  fecurely  reckon." 

Several  other  inflanccs  might  be  given  ;  but  I  reckon  thofe 
which  I  have  produced  fulBcicnt  to  make  the  rule  underfiood  ; 
that,  in  the  conftruflion  of  Sentences,  one  of  the  firft  things  to 
be  attended  to.  Is  the  marflialling  of  the  words  in  fuch  order 
as  fliall  moft  clearly  mark  the  relation  of  the  feveral  parts  of  the 
fentence  to  one  another  ;  particularly,  that  adverbs  fliall  always 
be  made  to  adhere  clofely  to  the  words  which  they  are  intended 
to  qualify ;  that,  where  a  circumftance  is  thrown  in,  it  fliall 
never  hang  loofc  in  the  midll  of  a  period,  but  be  determined 
by  its.  place  to  one  or  other  member  of  it ;  and  that  every  rel- 
ative word  which  is  ufed,  fliall  inftantly  prefent  its  antecedent 
to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  without  the  lead  obfcurity.  I  have 
mentioned  thefe  three  cafes,  becaufe  I  think  they  are  the  mofl: 
ficqueht  occafions  of  ambiguity  creeping  into  Sentences. 

With 


Lect.  XI.     STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  155 

"With  regard  to  relatives,  I  muft  farther  obferve,  that  ob- 
fcui'ity  often  arifes  from  the  too  frequent  repetition  of  them, 
particularly  of  the  pronouns  ivho^  and  they,  and  them,  and  theirs^ 
when  we  have  occafion  to  refer  to  different  pcrfons  ;  as>  in  the 
following  Sentence  of  ArchbifliopTillotfon  :  (vol.  I.  ferm.  42.) 
**  Men  look  with  an  evil  eye  upon  the  good  that  is  in  others; 
*'  and  think  that  their  reputation  obfcures  them,  and  their 
**  commendable  qualities  ftand  in  their  light  ;  and  therefore 
*'  they  do  what  they  can  to  calt  a  cloud  over  them,   that  the 

'  *'  bright  fliining  of  their  virtues  may  not  obfcure  them."  This 
is  altogether  carelefs  writing.  It  renders  ftyle  often  obfcure, 
always  embarraffed  and  inelegant.  When  we  find  thefe  per- 
fonal  pronouns  crowding  too  fad  upon  us,  we  have  often  no 
method  left,  but  to  throw  the  whole  fentence  into  fome  other 
form,  which  may  avoid  thofe  frequent  references  to  perfons 
who  have  before  been  mentioned. 

All  languages  are  liable  to  ambiguities.  Quintilian  gives 
us  fome  inftances  in  the  Latin,  arinng  from  faulty  arrange- 
ment. A  man,  he  tells  us,  ordered,  by  his  will,  to  have  erect- 
ed for  him,  after  his  death,  "Statuamauream  haftamtenentem  j'* 
upon  which  arofe  a  difpute  at  law,  whether  the  whole  flatue, 
or  the  fpear  only,  was  to  be  of  gold  ?  The  fame  author  ob- 
fcrves,  very  properly,  that  a  fentence  is  always  faulty,  when 
the  collocation  of  the  words  is  ambiguous,  though  the  fenfe 

^can  be  gathered.  If  any  one  (hould  fay,  *' Chremetem  audivi 
*'  percullifle  Demeam,"  this  is  ambiguous  both  in  fenfe  and 
ftrudilure,  whether  Chremes  or  Demea  gave  the  blow.  But  if 
this  expreflion  were  ufed,  "  Se  vidlfle  hominem  librum  fcriben- 
'*  tem,"  although  the  meaning  be  clear,  yet  Quintilian  in- 
fills that  the  arrangement  is  wrong.  "  Nam,"  fays  he,  **eti- 
**  amfi  librum  ab  homine  fcribi  patcat,  non  certe  hominem  a 
*'  libro,  male  tamen  compofuerat,  feceratque  ambiguum  quan- 
"  tVim  in  ipfo  fult."  Indeed,  to  have  the  relation  of  every  word 
and  member  of  a  Sentence  marked  in  the  mod  proper  and  dif- 
tintt  manner,  gives  not  clcarnefs  only,  but  grace  and  beauty  to 
a  Sentence,  making  the  mind  pafs  fmoothly  and  agreeably 
along  all  the  parts  of  it. 

I  proceed  now  to  the  fecond  quality  of  a  well-arranged  fen- 
tence, which  1  termed  its  Unltv.     This  is  a  capital  property, 
W     '  lu 


IS  I  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.      Lect.  XI. 

In  every  compofition,  of  whatever  kind,  fome  degree  of  Unity- 
is  required,  in  order  to  render  it  beautiful.  There  mud  be  al- 
ways fome  conneclinjT  principle  between  the  parts.  Some  one 
objcdl  muft  reign  and  be  predominant.  This,  as  I  fhall  here- 
after fliew,  holds  in  hiftory,  in  epic  and  dramatic  poetry,  and 
in  all  orations.  But  mod  of  all,  in  a  iingle  Sentence,  is  requir- 
ed the  ftricleft  unity.  For  the  very  nature  of  a  Sentence  im- 
plies one  propofition  to  be  exprefled.  It  may  confift  of  parts, 
indeed  :  but  thefe  parts  mull  be  fo  clofely  bound  together,  as 
to  make  the  impreffion  upon  the  mind,  of  one  obje£l,  not  of 
many.  Now,  in  order  to  preferve  this  Unity  of  a  Sentence,  the 
following  rules  muft  be  obferved  : 

•  In  the  firft  place,  during  the  courfe  of  the  Sentence,  the 
fcene  lliould  be  changed  as  little  as  poffible.  We  (liould  not  be 
hurried  by  fudden  tranfjtions  from  perfon  to  perfon,  nor  from 
fubjett  to  fubjecl.  There  is  commonly,  in  every  Sentence, 
fome  perfon  or  thing,  which  is  the  governing  word.  This 
fliould  be  continued  fo,  if  pofiible,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  it.  Should  I  exprefs  myfelf  thus :  "  After  we  cam.e  to 
*'  anchor,  they  put  me  on  Ihore,  where  I  was  welcomed  by  all 
"  my  friends,  who  received  me  with  the  greatefl:  kindnefs." 
In  this  Sentence,  though  the  objects  contained  in  it  have  a  fuf- 
ficient  connexion  witli  each  other,  yet,  by  this  manner  of  rep- 
refenting  them,  by  lliifting  fo  often  both  the  place  and  the  per- 
fon, we,  and  they,  and  /,  and  nnhoy  they  appear  in  fuch  a  difu- 
nited  view,  that  the  fenfe  of  connexion  is  almoll  loft.  The 
Sentence  is  reftored  to  its  proper  U/iity,  by  turning  it  after  the 
following  manner:  "Having  came  to  an  anchor,  I  was  put  on 
"  ihore,  where  I  was  welcomed  by  all  my  friends,  and  received 
with  the  greatefl  kindnefs."  Writers  who  tranfgrefs  this  rule, 
for  the  moft  part  tranfgrefs,  at  the  fiime  time, 

A  fecond  rule  •,  never  to  crowd  into  one  Sentence,  things 
which  have  fo  little  connexion,  that  they  could  bear  to  be  divid- 
ed into  two  or  three  Sentences,  f  The  violation  of  this  rule  nev- 
er fails  to  hurt  and  difpleafe  n  reader.  Its  efFe£l,  indeed,  is  fo 
bad,  that,  of  the  two,  it  is  the  fafer  extreme,  to  err  rather  by 
too  many  fhort  Sentences,  than  by  one  that  is  overloaded  and 
embarrafled.  Examples  abound  in  authors.  I  (hall  produce 
fome,  to  juftify  what  I  now  fay.     "  Archbifhop  Tillotfon/'  fays 

an 


Lect.  XL     STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  155 

an  author  of  the  hiflory  of  England,  **  died  in  this  year.  He 
*'  was  exceedingly  beloved  both  by  king  William  and  queen 
**  Mary,  who  nominated  Dr.  Tcnnifon,  bifliop  of  Lincoln,  to 
**  fuccced  him."  Who  would  expe<fl  the  latter  part  of  this 
fcntencc  to  follow,  in  confequence  of  the  former  ?  **  He  was 
**  exceedingly  beloved  by  both  king  and  queen,"  is  the  propofi- 
tion  of  the  fentence  :  we  look  for  fome  proof  of  this,  or  at 
leaft  fomething  related  to  it,  to  follow  ;  when  we  are  on  a  fud- 
den  carried  olT  to  a  new  propofitlon,  *'  who  nominated  Dr. 
*'  Tennifon,  to  fucceed  him."  The  following  is  from  Middle- 
ton's  Life  of  Cicero  :  "  In  this  uneafy  flate,  both  of  his  public 
**  and  private  life,  Cicero  was  opprefl'ed  by  a  new  and  cruel 
*'  affliction,  the  death  of  his  beloved  daughter  Tullia  ;  which 
*'  happened  foon  after  her  divorce  from  Dolabella  ;  whofe 
**  manners  and  humours  were  entirely  difagreeable  to  her." 
The  principal  obje£l  in  tliis  Sentence  is,  the  death  of  Tullia, 
•which  was  the  caufe  of  her  father's  affiidlion  ;  the  date  of  it, 
as  happening  foon  after  her  divorce  from  Dollabella,  may  enter 
into  the  Sentence  with  propriety  ;  but  the  fubjun<Slion  of  Dola- 
bella's  charafter  is  foreign  to  the  main  object  ;  and  breaks  the 
unity  and  compa(ftnefs  of  the  Sentence  totally,  by  fetting  a  new 
picture  before  the  reader.  The  following  Sentence,  from  a 
tranflation  of  Plutarch,  is  ftill  worfe  :  **  Their  march,"  fays  the 
Author,  fpeaking  of  the  Greeks  under  Alexander,  "  their  march 
"  was  through  an  uncultivated  country,  whofe  favage  inhabit- 
**  ants  fared  hardly,  having  no  other  riches  than  a  breed  of  lean 
*'  flieep,  whofe  flefli  was  rank  and  unfavoury,  by  rcafon  of  their 
*'  continual  feeding  upon  fea-fiih."  Here  the  fcene  is  changed 
upon  us  again  and  again.  The  march  of  the  Greeks,  the 
dcfcription  of  the  inhabitants  through  whofe  country  they  trav- 
elled, the  account  of  their  fiieep,  and  the  caufe  of  tlicir  fheep 
being  ill-tafted  food,  form  a  jumble  of  objects,  flightly  related 
to  each  other,  which  the  reader  cannot,  without  much  difficulty, 
comprehend  under  one  view. 

Thefe  examples  have  been  taken  from  Sentences  bf  no  great 
length,  yet  over-crowded.  Authors  who  deal  in  long  Sentences, 
are  very  apt  to  be  faulty  in  this  article.  One  need  only  open 
Lord  Clarendon's  Hiltory,  to  find  examples  every  where.  The 
long,  involved,  and  intricate  Sentences  of  that  Author,  are 
the  griiatclt  blemifli  of  his  compofition  j    though,   in  othci 

rcfpeds. 


1^6  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.     Lect.  XI. 

refpe(fls,  as  a  hiftorian,  he  has  coiiGderable  merit.  In  later, 
and  more  corre£t  writers  than  Lord  Clarendon,  we  find  a 
period  fometimes  running  out  fo  far,  and  comprehending  fo 
many  particulars,  as  to  be  more  properly  a  dilcourle  than  a 
Sentence.  Take,  for  an  infhance,  the  following  from  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple,  in  his  Eflay  upon  Poetry  :  "  The  ufual  acceptation 
*'  takes  profit  and  pleafure  for  two  different  things  ;  and  not 
"  only  calls  the  followers  or  votaries  of  them  by  the  feveral 
*'  names  of  bufy  and  idle  men  ;  but  dilfinguilhes  the  faculties 
*'  of  the  mind,  that  are  converfant  about  them,  calling  the  op- 
•'  erations  of  the  firlt,  wifdom  ;  and  of  the  other,  wit ;  which 
**  is  a  Saxon  word,  ufed  to  exprefs  what  the  Spaniards  and 
**  Italians  call  Ingc/iio,  and  the  French,  Efprit^  both  from  the 
**  Latin  ;  though  I  think  wit  more  particularly  fignifies  that  of 
*'  poetry,  as  may  occur  in  remarks  on  the  Runic  Language." 
When  one  arrives  at  the  end  of  inch  a  puzzled  fentence,  he  is 
furprifed  to  find  himfelf  got  to  fo  great  a  diftance  from  the 
objedl:  with  which  he  at  firft  fet  out. 

Lord  Shaftefbury,  often  betrayed  into  faults  by  his  love  of 
magnificence,  fhall  afford  us  the  next  example.  It  is  in  his 
Rhapfody,  where  he  is  describing  the  cold  regions  '■  "At  length," 
fays  he,  "  the  fun  approaching,  melts  the  fnow,  fets  longing 
**  men  at  liberty,  and  affords  them  means  and  time  to  make  pro- 
^*  vifion  asainft  the  next  return  of  cold."  This  firft  Sentence  is 
correal:  enough  ;  but  he  goes  on  :  '*  It  breaks  the  icy  fetters  of 
**  the  main,  where  vaft  fca-monfters  pierce  through  floating  ifl- 
*'  ands,  with  arms  which  can  withftand  the  cryflal  rock  ;  whiHl 
*'  others,  who  of  themfelves  feem  great  as  iflands,  are  by  their 
**  bulk  alone  armed  againfball  but  man,  whofe  fuperiority  over 
**  creatures  of  fuch  ftupendous  fize  and  force,  fhouKl  make  him 
**  mindful  of  his  privilege  of  reafon,  and  force  him  humbly  to 
**  adore  the  great  Compofer  of  thefe  wondrous  frames,  and  the 
*'  Author  of  his  own  fuperior  wifdom."  Nothing  c?;n  be  more 
unhappy  or  embarraflcd  than  this  Sentence  ;  the  worfc  too,  as  it 
is  intended  to  be  defcriptive,  where  every  thing  fliould  be  clear. 
It  forms  no  diftinft  image  whatever.  The  //,  at  the  beginning, 
is  ambiguous,  whether  it  mean  the  fun  or  the  cold.  The  ob- 
jc£l  is  changed  three  times  in  the  Sentence  ;  beginning  with 
the  fun,  which  breaks  the  icy  fetters  of  the  main  5  then  the  fea- 

monllers 


Lect.  XL     STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  357 

monfters  become  the  principal  perfonages  ;  and  laflly,  by  a  very 
unexpected  tranfition,  man  is  brought  iitto  view,  and  receives 
a  long  and  ferious  admonition  before  the  Sentence  clofes.  I  do 
not  at  prefent  infiit  on  the  impropriety  ot  fuch  exprelTions  as. 
Goers  being  the  Compofer  of  frames ;  and  the  fea-moti(ters  hav- 
ing ,7;7?i.f  that  ivJthJlaiid rocks.  Shaftefbury's  flrength  lay  in  rea- 
foning  and  fentiment,  more  than  in  defcription ;  however  much 
his  defcriptions  have  been  fometimes  admired. 

I  flvall  only  give  one  inflance  more  on  this  head,  from  Dean 
Swift ;  in  his  propofal,  too,  for  corre6ling  the  Englilh  Lan- 
guage :  where,  in  place  of  a  Sentence,  he  has  given  a  loofc 
diflertation  upon  feveral  fiibje^ls.  Speaking  of  the  progrefs  of 
our  Language,  after  the  time  of  Cromwell  :  "  To  this  fucceed- 
"  ed,"  fays  he,  "  that  licentioufnefs  which  entered  with  the 
**  reftoration,  and,  from  infe£ling  our  religion  and  morals, 
"  fell  to  corrupt  our  Language  ;  which  laft  was  not  like 
**  to  be  much  improved  by  thofe,  who  at  that  time  made  up  the 
**  court  of  king  Charles  the  fecond  *,  either  fuch  as  had  fol- 
*'  lowed  him  in  his  banifhment,  or  who  had  been  altogether 
"  converfant  in  the  diale£t  of  thefe  fanatic  times  ;  or  young 
*'  men,  who  had  been  educated  in  the  fame  country  :  fo  that 
*'  the  court,  which  ufed  to  be  the  flandard  of  corre6lntfs  r.nd 
*•  propriety  of  fpeech,  was  then,  and  I  think  has  ever  fincc 
**  continued,  the  word  fchool  in  England  for  that  accomplifli- 
*'  ment  ;  and  fo  will  remain,  till  better  care  be  taken  in  the 
*'  education  of  our  nobility,  that  they  may  fet  out  into  the 
*'  M'orld  wiih  fome  foundation  of  literature,  in  order  to  qualify 
*'  them  for  patterns  of  politenefs."  How  many  different  fa6^s, 
xeafonings,  and  obfervations,  are  here  prefented  to  the  mind  at 
once  !  and  yet  fo  linked  together  by  the  Author,  that  they  all 
make  parts  of  a  Sentence,  which  admits  of  no  greater  divificii 
in  pointing,  than  a  femicolon  between  any  of  its  members  ? 
Havir.g  mentioned  pointing,  1  fliall  here  take  notice,  tl.at  it  is 
in  vain  to  propofe,  by  arbitrary  pun6i.uation,  to  amend  the  de- 
feats of  a  Sentence,  to  correif^  its  ambiguity,  or  to  prevent  its 
confufion.  For  commas,  colons,  and  points,  do  not  make  the 
|>roper  divifions  of  thought  ;  but  only  ferve  to  mark  thofe 
which  arife  from  the  tenor  of  the  Author's  exprcfhon  :  and, 
therefore,  they  are  proper  tjr  not,  jufl  according  as  they  concf- 

pond 


X5«  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.     Lect.  XL 

pond  to  the  natural  div'ifions  of  the  fenfe.  When  they  art:  in- 
serted in  wrong  places,  they  ueferve,  and  will  meet  with,  no 
regard. 

i  proceed  to  a  third  rule,  for  preferving  the  Unity  of  Sen- 
tences ;  which  is,  to  keep  clear  of  all  parenthcfes  in  the  mid- 
dle of  them.  On  fome  occauons,  thefe  may  have  a  fpirited  ap- 
pearance i  as  prompted  by  a  certain  vivacity  of  thought,  which 
can  glance  happily  afide,  as  it  is  going  along  )  Bur,  for  the 
moft  part,  their  efTccl  is  extremely  bad  ;  being  a  fort  of  wheels 
within  wheels  i  Sentences  in  the  midft  of  Sentences  ;  the  per- 
plexed method  of  difpofmg  of  fome  thought,  which  a  writer 
wants  art  to  intrctiuce  in  its  proper  place.  It  were  needlefs  to 
give  many  inflances,  as  they  occur  fo  often  among  incorrc£t 
writers.  1  fliall  produce  one  from  Lord  Bolingbroke ;  the  ra- 
pidity of  wLofe  genius,  and  manner  of  writing,  betrays  hina 
frequently  into  inaccuracies  of  this  fort.  It  is  in  the  Introduc- 
tion to  his  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King,  M'here  he  writes  tlivis  :  "It 
•*  fcems  to  me,  that,  in  order  to  maintain  the  fyftem  of  the 
"  world,  at  a  certain  point,  far  below  tbat  of  ideal  perfeclion, 
**  (for  we  are  made  capable  of  conceiving  what  we  are  incapa- 
**  hie  of  attaining)  but,  however,  fufficient,  upon  the  whole,  to 
"  conftitute  a  ftate  eafy  and  happy,  or  at  the  worfl,  tolerable  ; 
•*  I  fay,  it  feems  to  me,  that  the  Author  of  Nature  has  thought 
•'  fit  to  mingle,  frcm  time  to  time,  among  the  focictics  of  nun, 
*'  a  few,  and  but  a  few,  of  thofe  on  whom  he  is  gracioufly 
*'  pleaft'd  to  bcflow  a  larger  portion  of  the  Itherial  Spirit,  than 
"  is  given,  in  the  ordinary  courfc  of  his  government,  to  the 
*'  fons  of  m.en.'*  A  very  bad  Sentence  this  ;  into  which,  by 
the  help  of  a  Parenthefis,  and  other  intcrjecled  circumOnnces, 
his  Lordfliip  had  contrived  to  thrufl  fo  many  things,  that  he  is 
forced  to  begin  the  conftruftion  again  with  the  phrafe,  J  fay  ; 
which,  whenever  it  occurs,  may  be  always  affumcd  as  a  fure 
mark  of  a  clumfy  ill-conftru£ted  Sentence;  excufable  in  fpeak- 
ing,  where  the  greateft  accuracy  is  not  expefted,  but  in  polilh- 
ed  writing,  unpardonable. 

I  (hall  add  only  one  rule  more  for  the  Unity  of  a  Sentence, 
which  is,  to  bring  it  always  to  a  full  and  perfc6l  clofe.  Every 
thing  that  is  one,  j[hould  have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end.  "  I  need  not  take  notice,  that  an  unHnifiied  Sentence  is 

no 


Lect.  XL     STRUCTURE  OF  SEMTENCES.  159 

no  Sentence  at  all,   according  to  any  grammatical  rule.     But 
very  often  we  meet  with  Sentences  that  are,  fo  to  fpeak,  more 
tli.in  liail^eJ.     When   w^J  have . arrived  at  what  we  expected 
was  to  beth^  conclufioa,  when  we  have  comi  to  the  word  on 
which  the  mind  is  naturally  led,  by  what  went  before,  to  reft ; 
unexpe£ledly,  fome  circumftance  pops  out,  which  ought  to  have 
been  o-nitted,  or  to  have  been  difpofcd  of  elfewliere  ;  but  which 
is  left  lagging  behind,  like  a   tail  adje6led  to   the  Sentence ; 
fomewhat  that,  as  Mr.  Pope  defcribes  the  Alexandrine  line, 
"  Like  a  wounded  fnake,  drags  It  flow  length  along." 
All  thefe  adje6tions  to  the  proper  clofe,  disfigure  a  Sentence 
extremely.     They  give  it  a  lame,  ungraceful  air,  and,  in  partic- 
ular, they  break  its  Unity.     Dean  Swift,  for  inftance,  in  his 
Letter  to  a  young  Clergyman,  fpcaking  of  Cicero's  writings,  ex- 
prefles   himfelf  thus  :  "  With  thefe   writings,   young  divines 
*'  are  more  converfant,  than  with  diofe  of  Demofthenes,  who, 
**  by  miny  degrees,  excelled  the  other;  at  leaft,  as  an  orator.'* 
Here  the  natural  clofe  of  the  Sentence  is  at  tliefe  words,  *'  ex-. 
*'  celled  the  other."     Thefe  words  conclude  the  propofition ) 
we  look  for  no  more;  and  the   circumitance  added,  "at  leaft, 
as  an  oratov,"  comes  in  with  a- very  halting  pace.     How  much 
more  compaft  would  the  Sentence  have  been,  if  turned  thus  : 
*'  With  thefe  writings,  young  divines   are   more   converfant, 
*'  than  with  thofe  of  Demofthenes,  wlio,  by  many  degrees,  as 
**  an  orator  at   Icaft,  excelled  the  other."     In   the  following 
Sentence,    from  Sir  Williani  Temple,  the    adjeillon  to   the 
Sentence    is    altogether  foreign   to   it.     Speaking  of  Burnet's 
Theory  of  the  Earth,  and  Fontenelle's  Plurality  of  Worlds, 
*' The  firft,"   fays  he,  **  could   not   end  his  learned   treatife, 
**  without  a  pan^igyric  of  modern  learning,  iucomparifon  of  the 
**  ancient ;  and  the  other,   falls  fo  grofsly  into  the  cenfure  of 
**  the  old  poetry,  and  preference  of  the  new,  that  I  could  not 
"  read  either  of  thefe  ftrains  without  fome  indignatio?i ;  which 
"  no  quality  among  men  is  Co  apt  to  raiie  in  me  as  felf-fuffi* 
"  ci'.'ncy."     The  word  **  indignation,"  concluded  the  Sentence  ; 
the  laft  member,  "  which  no   quality  among  men  is  fo  apt  to 
"  raifc  in  me   as  felf- fuiFiciency,"  is   a  propofitioii  altogether 
new,  added  after  the  proper  clofe. 

LECTURE 


■■■  I'm;  rn^-Bmai^ 


LECTURE        Xir. 


STRUCTURE   OF    SENTENCES. 

Jrl  AVING  treated  of  Perfplciuty  and  Unity,  as  necef- 
fary  to  be  iludied  iu  the  Strudlure  of  Sentences,  I  proceed  to 
the  third  quality  of  a  corrcit  Sentence,  which  I  termed  Strength. 
By  this,  I  nxean,  fiioh  a  difpofition  of  the  fe\-eral  words  and 
members,  as  ihall  bring  out  tlie  fenfe  to  the  bcft  advantage  ;  as 
{hall  render  tlie  impreirion,  which  the  period  is  defigned  to 
make,  moft  full  and  complete  ;  and  give  every  word,  and  every 
member,  its  due  weight  and  force.  The  two  former  qualities 
of  Perfplcuity  and  Unity,  are,  no  doubt,  abfolutely  necclTary  to 
the  produ6lion  of  this  efFecl  •,  but  more  is  ftill  requifite.  For 
a  Sentence  may  be  clear  enough ;  it  may  alfo  be  compact 
enough,  in  all  its  parts,  or  have  the  requiiite  unity ;  and  yet» 
by  fome  unfavourable  circumllance  in  the  Strafture,  it  may 
fail  in  that  fbrengrh  or  livelinefs  of  impreflion,  which  a  more 
happy  arrangement  would  have  produced. 

The  firfl  rule  which  I  fliall  give,  for  promoting  the  Strength 
of  a  Sentence  is,  to  prune  it  of  all  redundant  words.  '■  Thefe 
may,  fometimes,  be  confiftent  with  a  confiderable  degree  both 
of  Clearnefs  and  Unity  ;  but  they  are  always  enfeebling.  They 
make  the  Sentence  move  along  tardy  and  encumbered ; 

Eft  brevitate  opus,  iit  currat  fententia,  neu  fc 
Impediat  verbis,  laflas  onerantibus  aures.* 

It  is  a  general  maxim,  that  any  words,  which  do  not  add  fome 
importance  to  the  meaning  of  a  fentence,  always  fpoil  it.  They 
cannot  be  fuperfluous,  without  being  hurtful.  *'  Obftat,"  fays 
Quintilian,  "  quicquid  non  adjuvat."  All  that  can  be  cafdy 
fuppiied  in  the  mind,  is  better  left  out  in  the  cxprelTion.  Thus  : 
"  Content  with  deserving  a  triumph,  he  refufed  the  honour  of 

•  "  Concife  your  dlifhion,  let  your  fcnfe  be  clear, 
"  Kor,  with  a  weight  of  words,  fatigue  the  car."  Francis. 


Lect.  XIL     structure  OF  SENTENCES.  i6t 

it,"  is  better  Language  than  to  fay,  **  Being  content  with  de- 
*'  fcrving  a  triumph,  he  refufed  tlie  honour  of  it."  I  confider 
it,  therefore,  as  one  of  tlie  mofl  ufcful  exercifes  of  correction. 
Upon  reviewing  what  we  have  written  or  compofed,  to  contract 
that  round-about  method  of  expreflion,  and  to  lop  ofF  thofe  ufe- 
lefs  excrefcences  which  are  commonly  found  in  a  firfl  draught. 
Here  a  fevere  eye  fliould  be  employed  j  and  we  fljall  always 
"find  our  Sentences  acquire  more  vigour  and  energy  when  thus 
retrenched  :  provided  always,  that  we  run  not  into  the  extreme 
of  pruning  fo  very  clofe,  as  to  give  a  hardnefs  and  drynefs  to 
llyle.  For  here,  as  in  all  other  things,  there  is  a  due  medium. 
Some  regard,  though  not  the  principal,  mud  be  had  to  fulnefs 
and  fwelling  of  found.  Some  leaves  muil  be  left  to  furround 
and  (belter  the  fruit. 

As  Sentences  ihould  be  cleared  of  redundant  words,  fo  alfo 
of  redundant  members.  As  every  word  ought  to  prefent  a 
new  idea,  fo  every  member  ought  to  contain  a  new  thought. 
Oppofed  to  this,  Hands  the  fault  we  fometimes  meet  with,  of 
the  laft  member  of  a  period,  being  no  other  than  the  echo  of 
the  former,  or  the  repetition  of  it  in  fomewhat  a  different  form. 
For  example  ;  fpeaking  of  Beauty,  "  The  very  firft  difcovery 
**  of  it,"  fays  Mr.  Addifon,  "  ftrikes  the  mind  with  inward  joy, 
*'  and  fpreads  delight  through  all  its  faculties."  (No.  412.) 
And  elfewhere,  "  It  is  irapoflible  for  us  to  behold  the  divine 
*'  works  with  coldnefs-  or  hidifFerence,  or  to  furvey  fo  many 
**  beauties,  without  a  fecret  fatisfaQion  and  complacency." 
(No.  413.)  In  both  thefe  inftances,  little  or  nothing  is  added 
by  the  fecond  member  of  the  Sentence  to  what  was  already 
icxprefled  in  the  firft  :  and  though  the  free  and  flowing  man- 
ner of  fuch  an  author  as  Mr.  Addifon,  and  the  graceful  har- 
mony of  his  periods,  may  palliate  fuch  negligences  ;  yet,  in 
general,  it  holds,  that  ftyle,  freed  from  this  prolixity,  appears 
both  more  ftrong,  and  more  beautiful.  The  attention  becomes 
remifs,  the  mind  falls  into  ina(Slion,  when  words  are  muki- 
plied  without  a  correfponding  multiplication  of  ideas. 

After  removing  fuperfluitles,  the  fecond  direilion  I  give,  for 
promoting  the  Strength  of  a  Sentence,  is,  to  attend  particular- 
ly to  the  ufe  of  copulatives,  relatives,  and  all  the  particles  em- 
ployed for  tranfition  and  connexion.  \  Thefe  little  words,  htt, 

X  and. 


i62  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.    Lect.  XII. 

andt  ivhtchy  wkofe,  rohere,  &c.  are  frequently  the  moll:  import- 
ant words  of  any  ;  they  are  th<^  joints  or  hinges  upon  which 
all  Sentences  turn,  and  of  courfe,  much,  both  of  their  grace- 
fulnefs  and  Strength,  mud  depend  upon  fuch  particles.  The 
varieties  in  ufing  them  are,  indeed,  fo  infinite,  that  no  particu- 
lar fyflem  of  rules,  refpe£ling  them,  can  be  given.  Attention  to 
the  pra£lice  of  the  mofl  accurate  writers,  joined  with  frequent 
trials  of  the  diJerent  efFefls,  produced  by  a  different  ufage  of 
thofe  particles,  muft  here  dire£l  us.*  Some  obfervations,  1 
fhall  mention,  which  have  occurred  to  me  as  ufeful,  without 
pretending  to  exhaufl:  the  fubjecft. 

What  is  called  fplitting  of  particles,  or  feparating  a  prepofi- 
tion  from  the  noun  which  it  governs,  is  always  to  be  avoided. 
As  if  I  fliould  fay,  "  Though  virtue  borrows  no  affiflancc 
**from,  yet  it  may  often  be  accompanied  by,  the  advantages 
**  of  fortune."  In  fuch  inftances,  we  feel  a  fort  of  pain,  from 
the  revulfion,  or  violent  feparation  of  two  things,  which,  by 
their  nature,  fhould  be  clofcly  united.  We  are  put  to  a  ftand 
in  thought;  being  obliged  to  reft  for  a  little  on  the  prepofition 
by  itfelf,  which,  at  the  fame  time,  carries  no  fignificancy,  till 
it  is  joined  to  its  proper  fubftantive  noun. 

Some  writers  needlefsly  multiply  dcmonftrative  and  relative 
particles,  by  the  frequent  ufe  of  fuch  phrafeology  as  this : 
*' There  is  nothing  which  difgufts  us  fooner  than  the  empty 
"  pomp  of  Language."  In  introducing  a  fubjc£l:,  or  laying 
down  a  propofition,  to  which  we  demand  particular  attention, 
this  fort  of  ftyle  is  very  proper  •,  but,  in  the  ordinary  current  of 
difcourfe,  it  is  better  to  exprefs  ourfelves  more  fimply  and 
.fliortly  :  "Nothing  difgufts  us  fooner  than  the  empty  pomp 
*'  of  Language." 

Other  writers  make  a  pra£llce  of  omitting  the  relative,  ia 
a  phrafe  of  a  different  kind  from  the  former,  where  they  think 
the  meaning  can  be  underftood  without  it.  As,  "  The  man  I 
*'  love."  "  The  dominions  we  poffeffed,  and  the  conquefts  we 
"  made."  But  though  this  elliptical  ftyle  be  intelligible,  and  is  al- 
lowable in  convcrfation  and  epiftolary  writing,  yet,  in  all  writ- 
ings of  aferious  or  dignified  kind,  it  is  ungraceful.    Ihere,  the 

relative 

*  On  this  hc-id,  Dr  Lowth's  Short  ItUroduAion  to  EngUili  Grammar  dc- 
fcrvei  to  be  •oiilultcd;  whtre  fcvcral  niceties  of  th^  Language  are  well  point- 
ed out. 


Lect.XII.    structure  of  sentences.  163 

relative  fliould  always  be  inferted  in  its  proper  place,  and  the 
conftrudion  filled  up  :  "  The  man  whom  I  love."  "  The  do- 
**  minions  which  we  poflefied,  and  the  conquefts  which  wc 
«  made." 

With  regard  to  the  copulative  particle,  ntidy  which  occurs 
fo  frequently  in  all  kinds  of  compofition,  feveral  obfervations 
are  to  be  made,  lirft,  It  is  evident,  th;it  the  unneccflary  rep- 
etition of  it  enfeebles  llyk.  It  has  the  f.ime  fort  of  effect, 
as  the  frequent  ufe  of  the  vulgar  phrafe,  and  fo^  when  one  is 
telling  a  ftory  in  common  converfation.  Wc  fhall  take  a  Sen- 
tence from  Sir  William  Temple,  for  an  inflance.  He  is  fpeak- 
rng  of  the  refinement  of  the  French  Language  :  "  The  acade- 
**  my  fet  up  by  Cardinal  Richlieu,  to  amufe  the  wits  of  that 
**  age  and  country,  and  divert  them  from  raking  into  his  politics 
**and  miniftry,  brought  this  into  vogue  \.  and  the  French  wits 
*'  have,  for  this  laft  age,  been  wholly  turned  to  the  refinement 
"  of  their  Style  and  lianguage  ;  and  indeed,  with  fuch  fucccfs, 
"  that  it  can  hardly  be  equalled,  and  runs  equally  through  their 
"  verfe  and  their  profe."  Here  are  «no  fewer  than  eight  aiids 
in  one  fentcnce.  This  agreeable  writer  too  often  makes  his 
fentences  drag  in  this  manner,  by  a  carelefs  multiplication  of 
copulatives.  It  is  ftrange  how  a  writer,  fo  accurate  as  Dean 
Swift,  fliould  have  ftumbled  on  fo  improper  an  application  of 
this  particle,  as  he  has  made  in-  the  following  Sentence ;  Eflay 
on  the  Fates  of  Clergymen.  "  There  is  no  talent  fo  ufeful  to- 
"  wards  rifing  in  the  world,  or  which  puts  men  more  out  of 
**  the  reach  of  fortune,  than  that,  quality,  generally  poffefl:  by 
**  the  dulleft  fort  of  people,  and  is,  in  common  language,  called 
**  difcretion  *,  a  fpecies  of  lower  prudence,  by  the  afliflance  of 
•*  which,  &C."  By  the  infertion  of,  and  is,  in  place  of,  ivhici  is, 
he  has  not  only  clogged  t\\e.  Sentence,  but  even,  made  it  un- 
grammatical. 

But,  in  the  next  place,  it  is  worthy  of  obfervation,  that 
though  the  natural  ufe  of  the  conjunci^ion,  atidy  be  to  join  ob- 
je£ls  together,  and  thereby,  as  one  would  think,  to  make  their 
connexion  more  clofe  ;  yet,  in  fa£l,  by  dropping  the  conjuncr 
tion,  we  often  mark  a  clofer  connexion,  a  quicker  fucceflion  of 
obje£ls,  than  when  it  is  inferted  between  them.  Longinus 
makes  this  remark  j  which,  from  many  inftanccs,  appears  to  be 

juft; 


J  64  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.    Lect.XIL 

juft :  "Vcnl,  vidi,  vici,"*  exprefles  with  more  fpirit,  the  ra- 
pidity and  quick  fucceffion  of  conqueft,  -than  if  conne6ling  par- 
ticles had  been  ufed.  So,  in  the  following  defcription  of  a 
route  in  Csefar's  Commentaries  :  "  Noftri,  emiflis  pilis,  gladiis 
*'  rem  gerunt ;  repente  poft  tergum  equitatus  cernitur ;  cohor- 
**  tes  alias  appropinquant.  Holies  tcrga  vertunt  \  fugientibus 
**  equitcs,  occorrunt ;  fit  magna  csedes/'f     Bell.  Gall.  \.  7. 

Hence,  it  follows,  that  when,  on  the  other  hand,  we  feelc  to 
prevent  a  quick  tranfition  from  one  obje£l  to  another,  when  we 
are  making  fome  enumeration,  in  which  we  wi{h  that  the  ob- 
jects (hould  appear  as  diftinft  from  each  other  as  pofTible,  and 
that  the  mind  fliould  reft,  for  a  moment,  on  each  obje£l  by  it- 
felf ;  in  this  cafe,  copulatives  may  be  multiplied  with  peculiar 
advantage  and  grace.  As  when  Lord  Bolingbroke  fliys,  "  Such 
*'  a  man  might  fall  a  vi£tim  to  power ;  but  truth,  and  reafon, 
"  and  liberty,  would  fall  with  him."  In  the  fame  manner,  Cse- 
far  defcribes  an  engagement  with  the  Nervii :  "  His  equitibus 
"  facile  pulfis  ac  proturbatis,  incredibile  celeritate  ad  flumen 
"  decurrerunt ;  ut  pene  uno  tempore>  et  ad  filvas,  et  in  flumine, 
"  et  jam  in  manibus  noHris,  holies  viderentur.":):  Bell.  Gall. 
1.  2.  Here,  although  he  is  defcribing  a  quick  fucceflion  of 
events,  yet,  as  it  is  his  intention  to  fhow  in  how  many  places 
the  enemy  feemed  to  be  at  one  time,  the  copulative  is  very 
happily  redoubled,  in  order  to  paint  more  ftrongly  the  diftinc- 
tion  of  thefe  feveral  places. 

This  attention  to  the  feveral  cafes,  when  it  is  proper  to 
omit,  and  when  to  redouble  the  copulative,  is  of  confiderable 
importance  to  all  v/ho  ftudy  eloquence.  For,  it  is  a  remarka- 
ble particularity  in  Language,  that  the  omiflion  of  a  conne£l- 
ing  particle  fliould  fometimes  ferve  to  make  objects  appear 
more  clofcly  conneiSled  ;  and  that  the  repetition  of  it  fliould 
diftinguifh   and  feparate   them,  in  fome  meafure,  from  each 

other. 

*  "  I  came,  I  faw,  I  conquered." 

f  "  Our  men,  after  having  difcharged  their  javelins,  attack  nith  fvord  in 
•*  hand  :  of  a  fudden,  the  cavalry  make  their  appearance  behind;  ether  bod- 
"  ies  of  men  aic  feen  drawing  near  :  the  enemies  turn  their  backs;  the  horlc 
"meet  them  in  their  flight ;  a  great  flaughter  enlues." 

^  "The  enemy,  having  cafily  beat  off,  and  feat fercd  this  body  of  horfe, 
"ran  down  with  incredible  celerity  to  the  river;  fo  that,  almoft  at  one 
*•  moment  of  time,  they  appeared  to  be  in  the  woods,  and  in  tlie  river,  and  in 
"  the  midft  of  our  troops," 


Lect.XII.    structure  of  sentences.  t6s 

other.  Hence,  the  omiflion  of  it  is  ufed  to  denote  rapidity  ; 
and  the  repetition  of  it  is  defigned  to  retard  and  to  aggravate. 
The  reafon  feems  to  be,  that,  in  the  former  cafe,  the  mind  is 
fuppofed  to  be  hurried  fo  fafh  through  a  quick  fucceflion  of 
obje6ls,  that  it  has  not  leifure  to  point  out  their  connexion  ;  it 
drops  the  copulatives  in  its  hurry  ;  and  crovi^ds  the  whole  feries 
together,  as  if  it  were  but  one  obje£l.  Whereas,  when  we  enu- 
merate, with  a  view  to  aggravate,  the  mind  is  fuppofed  to  pro- 
ceed with  a  more  flow  and  folcnin  pace  ;  it  marks  fully  the  re- 
lation of  each  objedl  to  that  which  fuccceds  it ;  and,  by  joinin* 
them  together  with  feveral  copulatives,  makes  you  perceive,  that 
the  objects,  though  conne£led,  are  yet,  in  themfelves,  diftin£l; 
that  they  are  many,  not  one.  Obferve,  for  inftance,  in  the 
following  enumeration,  made  by  the  apollle  Paul,  what  addi- 
tional weight  and  diftindlnefs  is  given  to  each  particular,  by 
the  repetition  of  a  conjunction.  "  I  am  perfuaded,  that  neither 
"  death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor  powers,  nor 
*'  things  prefent,  nor  things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth, 
**  nor  any  other  creature,  fhall  be  able  to  feparate  us  from  the 
*'love  of  God."  Rom.  viii.  38,  39.  So  much  with  regard  to 
the  ufe  of  copulatives. 

I  proceed  to  a  third  rule,  for  promoting  the  Strength  of  a 
Sentence,  which  is,  to  difpofe  of  the  capital  word,  or  words,  in 
that  place  of  the  Sentence,  where  they  will  make  the  fullefl  im- 
preffion.  That  fuch  capita!  words  there  are  in  every  Sentence, 
on  which  the  meaning  principally  reils,  every  one  mud  fee  ;  and 
that  thefe  words  fliould  poflefs  aconfpicuous  and  diftinguiilKjd 
place,  is  equally  plain.  1  Indeed,  that  place  of  the  Sentence 
where  they  will  make  the  bed  figure,  whether  the  beginning, 
or  the  end,  or,  fometimes,  even  in  the  middle,  cannot,  as  far 
as  I  know,  be  afcertained  by  any  precife  rule.  This  mufl:  vary 
with  the  nature  of  the  Sentence.  Perfpicuity  mufl  ever  bo 
ftudied  in  the  firfl  place ;  and  the  nature  of  our  Language  al- 
lows no  great  liberty  in  the  choice  of  collocation.  For  the  mofl 
part,  with  us,  the  important  words  are  placed  in  the  beginning 
of  the  Sentence.  So  Mr.  Addifon  :  "  The  pleafures  of  the  im- 
"  agination,  taken  in  their  full  extent,  are  not  fo  grofs  as  thofe 
**  of  fenfe,  nor  fo  refined  as  thofc  of  the  underflanding."  And 
this,  indeed,  feems  the  mofl  plain  and  natural  order,  to  place 

that 


166  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.    Lect-XII. 

•that  in  the  front  v/hich  is  the  chief  objecH:  of  the  propofition 
■we  are  laying  down.  Sometimes,  however,  when  we  intend  to 
give  weight  to  a  Sentence,  it  is  of  advantage  to  fufpend  the 
meaning  for  a  little,  and  then  bring  it  out  full  at  the  clofe  : 
*'  Tl/us,"  fiys  Mr.  Pope,  "  on  whatever  fide  we  contemplate 
**  Homer,  what  principally  flrikes  us,  is,  his  wonderful  inven- 
"tion.'*     (Pref.  to  Homer.) 

The  Greek  and  Latin  writers  had  a  confiderable  advantage 
above  us,  in  this  part  of  flylc.  By  the  great  liberty  of  inverfion, 
vhich  their  Languages  permitted,  they  could  choofc  the  moft 
advantageous  fituation  for  every  word  ;  and  had  It  thereby  in 
their  power  to  give  their  Sentences  more  force.  ISlilton,  in  his 
profe  works,  and  fome  other  of  our  old  EngliOi  writers,  endeav- 
cured  to  imitate  them  in  this.  But  the  forced  conftrufliohs", 
•which  they  employed,  produced  obfcurity;  and  the  genius  of 
our  Language,  as  it  is  now  written  and  fpoken,  will  not  admit 
fuch  liberties.  Mr.  Gordon,  who  followed  this  inverted  ftylc 
in  hisTranflation  of  Tacitus,  has,  fometimes,  done  fuch  violence 
to  the  Language,  as  even  to  appear  ridiculous ;  as  in  this  ex- 
preffion :  "Into  this  hole  thrufi  th(.mfclves  three  Roman  fena- 
**tors."  He  has  tranllated  fo  fimplea  phrafe  as,  "Nullum  ea 
**  tempcflate  bellum,"  by,  "  War  at  that  time  there  was  none." 
However,  within  certain  bounds,  and  to  a  limited  degree,  our 
Langufige  does  admit  of  inverfions  ;  and  they  are  praOifcd  with 
fucccfs  by  the  beft  writers.  So  Mr.  I'ope,  fpeaking  of  Homer, 
•'The  praife  of  judgment  Virgil  hasjulLly  contefted  with  him, 
■'  but  his  invention  remains  yet  unrivalled."  It  is  evident,  that, 
in  order  to  give  the  Sentence  its  due  force,  by  contraftirg  prop- 
erly the  two  capital  words,  "  judgment  and  invention,"  this  is  a 
happier  arrangement  than  if  he  had  followed  the  natural  order, 
which  was,  "  V  irgil  has  juflly  contcfled  with  him  the  praife  of 
''judgment,  but  his  invention  remains  yet  unrivalled." 

Some  writers  pra<51ice  this  degree  of  inverfion^  which  our 
Language  bears,  much  more  than  others  ;  Lord  Shaftefbury,  for 
inftance,  much  more  than  Mr.  j'\ddifon  -,  and  to  this  fOrt  of  ar- 
rangement is  owing,  in  a  great  meafure,  that  appearance  of 
Strength,  dignity,  and  varied  harmony,  which  Lord  iShaftcfbur)''^Si 
ftyle  poffcfTes.  This  will  appear  from  the  following  Sentences 
of  his  Enc^uiry  into  Virtue  j  where  all  the  words  are  placed, 

not 


Lect.XII.    structure  of  sentences.  T67 

not  ftridlly  in  the  natural  order,  but  with  that  artificial  con- 
ilri>£tion,  which  may  give  the  period  moll  emphafis  and  grace. 
He  is  fpeaicing  of  the  mifery  of  vice.  "  This,  as  to  the  complete 
'*  immoral  (iate,  i,';,  what  of  their  own  accord,  men  readily  re- 
*'mark.  Wiiere  there  is  this  ablolute  degeneracy,  this  total 
*'  apoftacy  from  all  candour,  trufl,  or  equity,  there  are  few  who 
**  do  not  fee  and  acknowledge  the  rnlfery  whicli  is  confequent. 
"Seldom  is  the  cafe  mifcoailrued,  when  at  woril.  The  mif- 
"  fortune  is,  that  we  look  not  on  this  depravity,  nor  confider 
*•  how  it  (lands,  in  Icfs  degrees.  As  if,  to  be  abfolutely  im- 
**  moral,  were,  indeed  the  greateft  mifery  ;  but,  to  be  fo  in  a 
**  little  degree,  (hould  be  no  mifery  or  harm  at  all.  Which,  to 
*'  allow,  is  juft  as  reafonable  as  to  own,  tiiat  'tis  the  greateil  ill 
*' of  a  body  to  be  in  the  utraolt  manner  maimed  or  dillorted  ; 
*'  but  that,  to  lofe  the  ufe  only  of  one  limb,  or  to  be  impaired 
**  in  fome  Tingle  organ  or  member,  is  no  ill  worthy  the  lead  no- 
*' tice."  (Vol.  ii.  p.  82.)  Here  is  no  violence  done  to  the 
Language,  though  there  are  many  inverfions.  All  is  {lately, 
and  arranged  with  art  i  which  is  the  greateft  chara^lerillic  of 
this  author's  flyle. 

We  need  only  open  any  page  of  Mr.  Addifon,  to  fee  quite 
a  different  order  in  the  conftrucSlion  of  Sentences.  "  Our 
"  fight  is  the  mod  perfe6l,  and  mod  delightful  of  all  our  fenfes. 
**  It  fills  the  mind  with  the  larged  variety  of  ideas,  converfes 
**  with  its  obje^ls  at  thcgreatcd  didance,  and  continues  the  long- 
*'  eft  in  adlion,  v/ithout  being  tired,  or  fatiated  with  its  prop- 
*'  er  enjoyments*  The  fenfe  of  feeling  can,  indeed,  give  us  a 
"  notion  of  extenfion,  fiiape,  and  all  other  ideas  that  enter  at  the 
"eye,  except  colours;  but,  at  thefametime,it  isvery  much  drait- 
**  ened  and  confined  in  its  operations,  &c."  (Speculator,  No.  4 1 1 .) 
In  this  drain,  he  always  proceeds,  following  the  mod  natural 
and  obvious  order  of  the  Language  ;  and  if,  by  this  means,  he 
has  lefs  pomp  and  majedy  than  Shaftedjury,  he  has,  in  return, 
more  nature,  more  eafc  and  fimplicity  j  which  are  beauties  of 
a  higher  order. 

But  whether  we  praiSlife  inverfion  or  not,  and  in  whatever 
part  of  the  Sentence  we  difpofe  of  the  capital  wortis,  it  is  al- 
ways a  point  of  great  moment,  that  thcfe  capital  words  iliall 
(laud  clear  and  disentangled  from  any  other  words  that  would 

clog 


k6«  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.    Lect.  XIL 

clog  them.  Thus,  when  there  are  any  circumftances  of  time, 
place,  or  other  limitations,  which  the  principal  object  of  our 
Sentence  requires  to  have  conne£lcd  with  it,  we  mufl  take  ef- 
pecial  care  to  difpofe  of  them,  fo  as  not  to  cloud  that  principal 
obje£lj  nor  to  bury  it  under  a  load  of  circumftances.  This  will 
be  made  clearer  by  an  example.  Obferve  the  arrangement  of 
the  following  Sentence,  in  Lord  Shaftefbury's  Advice  to  an  Au- 
thor. He  is  fpeaking  of  modern  poets,  as  compared  with  the 
ancient:  "If,  whilft  they  profefs  only  to  pleafe,  they  fecretly 
•*  advife,  and  give  inftruiSlion,  they  may  now,  perhaps,  as  well 
•*  as  formerly,  be  efteemed,  with  juftice,  the  beft  and  mod  hon- 
•*  ourable  among  authors."  This  is  a  well  conftrufted  Sentence. 
It  contains  a  great  many  circumftances  and  adverbs,  neceflary 
to  qualify  the  meaning  ;  cnly,fecretlyy  as  well, perhaps,  now,  iv'ith 
fujlicey  formerly  ;  yet  thefe  are  placed  with  lb  much  art,  as 
neither  to  embarrafs,  nor  weaken  the  Sentence ;  while  that 
which  is  the  capital  obje6l  in  it,  viz.  "  Poets  being  juftly  efteem- 
**  ed  the  beft  and  moft  honourable  among  authors,"  comes  out 
in  the  conelufion  clear  and  detached,  and  poITefles  its  proper 
place.  See,  now,  what  would  have  been  the  efFe6l  of  a  differ- 
ent arrangement.  Suppofe  him  to  have  placed  the  members  of 
the  Sentence  thus :  "  If,  v/hilft  they  profefs  to  pleafe  only,  they 
*'  advife  and  give  inftruftion  fecretly,  they  may  be  efteemed  the 
"  beft  and  moft  honourable  among  authors,  with  juftice,  per- 
**  haps,  now,  as  well  as  formerly."  Here  we  have  precifely 
the  fame  words,  and  the  fame  fenfe  •,  but,  by  means  of  the 
circumftances  being  fo  intermingled  as  to  clog  the  capital  words, 
the  whole  becomes  perplexed,  without  grace,  and  without 
ilrength. 

A  fourth  rule,  for  conftruflingfentences  with  properStrength 
is,  to  make  the  members  of  them  go  on  rifing  and  growing  in, 
their  importance  above  one  another.  This  fort  of  arrange- 
ment is  called  a  climax,  and  is  always  confulered  as  a  beauty  in 
compofition.  From  what  caufe  it  pleafes,  is  abundantly  evi- 
dent. In  all  things,  we  naturally  love  to  afccnd  to  what  is 
more  and  more  beautiful,  rather  than  to  follow  the  retrograde 
order.  Having  had  once  fome  confiderable  obje6l  fet  before 
us,  it  is  with  pain,  we  are  pulled  back  to  attend  to  an  inferior 
circumftance.  "  Cavendum  eft,"  fays  Quintilian,  whofe  au- 
thority 


Li-.c T.  XII.     STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  169 

tliority  I  always  willingly  quote,  "ne  decrefcat  oratlo,  et  forti- 
*'  ori  iiibjungatiir  allquid  infirmius  ;  ficut,  f.xrilego,  fur;  aut 
*'  iatrqni  petulans.  Augeri  enini  ttcbent  fcntentiae  et  iufur- 
gevc."*  Of  this  beauty,  in  the  conrirudion  of  Sentences,  the 
orations  of  Ciccvo  furuilh  many  examples.  His  pompous  man- 
ner naturally  led  him  to  ftucly  it ;  and,  generally,  in  order  to 
render  the  climax  perfect,  he  makes  both  the  fenfe  and  the 
Ibund  rife  together,  with  a  very  maguiwcent  fweil.  So  in  his 
oration  for  Milo,  fpeaking  of  a  defign  of  Clodius's  for  afTalTinat- 
ing  Pompey  :  "  Atqui  G  res,  fi  vir,  fi  tetlipus  ullum  digiium  uiit, 
*'  certe  liEEC  in  iilii  cauia  fumma  omnia  fuerunt.  Iniidiator  erat 
"  in  Foro  coliocatusj-^tque  inVeitibuIo  ipfo  Senatusjeiviro  au- 
*'  tern  mors  parabatur,  cujus  in  vita  aitebatur  faius  civitatis  j  ea 
*' pqrro  rcipubiicse  tempore,  quo  fi  unus  illc  occidiflct,  non 
*'  hjec  folum  civitas,  fed  gcrites  omnes  concidiflent."  The  fol- 
lowing inllance,  from  Lord  Bolingbroke,  is  alfo  beautiful  : 
**  Tiyis  decency,  this  grace,  this  propriety  of  manners  to  char- 
*^,p^c^^r,  is  fo  cflential  to  princes  in  particular^  that,  whenever 
*'  it  is  negJecled,  their  virtues  lofe  a  gr.^at  degree  of  luflre,  ^nd 
*'  their  defccls  acquif  e  much  aggravatipn.  Nay  more ;  by  ne- 
"  gletllng  this  decency  and  this  grace,  and  for  want  of  a  fufr 
*'  ficient  regard  to  appearances,  even  tlXQix  virtues  may  betray 
*'  them  into  failings,  their  failings  into  vices,  and  their  vices 
•'into  habits  unworthy  of  prijices,  and  unworthy  of  men." 
(Idea  of  a  Patriot  King.) 

I  muft  obfcrve,  however,  that  this, fort  of  full  and  oratorir 
cal  climax,  can  ncitlier  be  always  obtained,  nor  ought  to  be  air 
■ways  fought  after.  Only  forae  kinds  of  writing  adrnit  fucU 
iStntences;  and,  to  ftudy  them  too  frequently,  efpccially  if  thp 
fubje£l:  require  not  fo  nmeh  pomp,  is  .aflect.ed  and  difagrceable. 
But  there  is  fometliing  approacinng  to  a  climax,  which  it  is  a 
general  rule  to  iludy,  *'ne  decrefcat  oratio,"  as  Quintilian 
i'pcaks,  *'et  ne  fortiori  fubjungatur  aliquid  infirmius."  A 
weaker  afTcrtion  or  propofition  (hould  never  come  after  a  Rrong- 
er  one-,  tuvX  whin  our  Sciitence  corifills  of  two  members,  the 
longcfl  fliould,  generally,  be  the  concluding  one.  There  is  a 
Y  twofold 

"■  "  Care  mnfl  lic  takrn,  fhnt  our  compofition  fliall  not  fall  off,  p.nd  that  a 
"  weaker. ex^^rcilion.niall  not  fi^llow  one  of  more  ftrcngth  ;  as  if,  after  facrilcgc, 
*'  wc  llinuld  bring  in  theft  ;  <^r,  hriving  mentioned  a  loblnry,  wc  fliould  fubjoia 
*'  pclul.iucc.     iJciitLnccs  ou^ht  always  to  rife  and  grow." 


170  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.      Lect.  XII. 

twofold  reafon  for  this  lad  diredlion.  Periods,  thus  divided, 
arc  pronounced  more  eafily ;  and  the  fhorteft  member  being 
placed  firft,  we  carry  it  more  readily  in  our  memory  as  we  pro- 
ceed to  the  fecond,  and  fee  the  connexion  of  the  two  more 
clearly.  Thus  to  fuy,  "when  our  pafTions  have  forfilcen  us, 
*'  we  flatter  ourfelvcs  with  the  belief  that  we  have  forfaken 
**  them,"  is  both  more  graceful  and  more  clear,  than  to  begin 
with  the  longed  part  of  the  propofition  :  "We  flatter  ourfelves 
*'  with  the  belief  that  we  have  forfaken  our  pa llions,  when  they 
**  have  forfaken  us."  In  general,  it  is  always  agreeable  to  find 
a  Sentence  rifing  upon  us,  and  growing  in  its  importance  to  the 
very  la  ft  word,  when  this  condruift  ion  can  be  managed  without 
affectation,  or  unfeafonable  pomp.  "  If  we  rife  yet  higher,'* 
fays  Mr.  Addifon,  very  beautifully,  "  and  confider  the  fixed 
*'  flars  as  (o  many  oceans  of  flame,  that  are  each  of  them  at- 
"  tended  with  a  different  fet  of  planets  ;  and  dill  difcover  new 
**  firmaments  and  new  lights,  that  are  funk  farther  in  thofe  un- 
**  fathomable  depths  of  icther ;  we  are  lod  in  fuch  a  labyrinth 
*'  of  funs  and  worlds,  and  confounded  with  the  magnificence 
**  and  immenfity  of  Nature."  (Spe£l.  No.  420.)  Hence  fol- 
lows clearly, 

A  fifth  rule  for  the  Strength  of  Sentences;  which  is,  to  avoid 
concluding  them  with  an  adverb,  a  prepofition,  or  any  incon- 
fiderable  word.  Such  conclufions  are  always  enfeebling  and 
degrading.  .  There  are  Sentences,  indeed,  where  the  drefs  and 
fignificancy  red  chiefly  upon  fome  words  of  this  kind.  In  this 
cafe,  they  are  not  to  be  confidered  as  circumdances,  but  as  the 
'Capital  figures ;  and  ought,  in  propriety,  to  have  the  principal 
place  allotted  them.  No  fault,  for  indance,  can  be  found  with 
this  Sentence  of  Bolingbroke's  :  "  In  their  profperity,  my  friends 
•*  fhall  never  hear  of  me  •,  in  their  adverfity,  always."  Where 
never  and  always,  being  emphatical  words,  were  to  be  fo  plac- 
ed, as  to  make  a  drong  imprelTion.  But  I  fpeak  novi^  of  thofc 
inferior  parts  of  fpeech,  when  introduced  as  circumdances,  or 
as  qualifications  of  more  important  words.  In  fuch  cafe,  they 
ftiould  always  be  difpofed  of  in  the  lead  confpicuous  part  of  the 
period ;  and  fo  claflcd  with  the  other  words  of  greater  dignity, 
as  to  be  kept  in  their  proper  fecondary  datlon. 

Agreeably  to  this  rule,  we  fliould  always  avoidconcluding  with 
any  of  thofe  particles,  which  mark  the  cafes  of  nouns,  <?/,  to, 

frail, 


Lect.XII.     structure  of  sentences.  171 

from  J  ivith,  by.  For  in  (lance,  it  is  a  great  deal  better  to  fay* 
"  Avarice  is  a  crime  of  which  wife  men  are  often  guilty,"  thau 
to  fay,  "  Avarice  is  a  crime  which  wife  men  are  often  guilty  of." 
This  is  a  phrafeology  which  all  correal  writers  fliun,  and  with 
reafon.  For,  befides  the  want  of  dignity  which  arifes  from 
thofe  monofyllables  at  the  end,  the  imagination  cannot  avoid 
reding,  for  a  little,  on  the  import  of  the  word  which  clofos  the 
fentence :  and,  as  thofe  prepofitions  have  no  import  of  their 
own,  but  only  ferve  to  point  out  the  relations  of  other  words, 
it  is  difagreeable  for  the  mind  to  be  left  paufing  on  a  word, 
which  does  not,  by  itfelf,  produce  any  idea,  nor  form  any  pic- 
ture in  the  fancy. 

For  the  fame  reafon,  verbs  wliich  are  ufed  in  a  compound 
fenfe,  with  fome  of  thefe  prepofitions,  are,  though  not  fo  bad, 
yet  ftill  not  fo  beautiful  conclufions  of  a  period  ;  fuch  as, 
bring  ahout^  /^ly  hold  of.,  come  over  to,  clear  iip^  a!id  many  other 
of  this  kind  :  inllead  of  which,  if  we  can  employ  a  fimple  verb, 
it  always  terminates  the  Sentence  with  more  (trength.  Eveu 
the  pronoun  /V,  though  it  has  the  import  of  a  fubftantive  noun, 
and  indeed  often  forces  itfelf  upon  us  unavoidably,  yet,  when 
we  want  to  give  dignity  to  a  Sentence,  fliould,  if  pollible,  be 
avoided  in  the  conclufion  ;  more  efpecially,  when  it  is  joined 
with  fome  of  the  prepofitions,  as,  iviih  it^  in  //,  to  it.  In  the 
following  Sentence  of  the  Speflator,  which  otherwife  is  abun- 
dantly noble,  the  bad  eiTecSt  of  this  clofe  is  fenfible  :  '*  There  is 
*'  not,  in  my  opnion,  a  more  pleafing  and  triumphant  confid- 
"  eration  in  religion,  than  this,  of  the  perpetual  progrefs  which 
**  the  foul  makes  towards  the  perfe£tioa  of  its  nature,  without 
"  ever  arriving  at  a  period  in  it."  (No.  iii.)  How  much 
more  graceful  the  Sentence,  if  it  had  been  fo  con(lru£led  as  ta 
clofe  with  the  word,  period .' 

Bcfidcs  particles  and  pronouns,  any  phrafc  which  exprefles  a 
circumftance  only,  always  brings  up  the  rear  of  a  Sentence 
with  a  bad  grace.  We  may  judge  of  this,  by  the  following 
Sentence  from  Lord  Bollngbroke  :  (Letter  on  the  State  of  Par- 
ties at  the  Accefllon  of  King  George  L)  "  Let  me,  therefore, 
**  conclude  by  repeating,  that  divlfion  has  caufed  all  the  mifchief 
"  we  lament  ;  that  union  alone  can  retrieve  it  ;  and  that  a 
"  great  advance  towards  tliis  union,  was  the  coalition  of  par- 
"  ties,  fo  happily  beg^uu,  fo  fuccefsfully  carried  on,  and  of  late 

*'  fa 


172        Structure  of  sentences.    Lect.xii. 

**  fo  unaccountably  neglefted  ;  to  fay  no  worfe."  This  laft 
phrafe,  1o  fay  no  ivorfe^  occafions  a  fad  falling  off  at  the  end  ; 
fo  ir.uch  the  more  unhappy,  as  the  rell  of  the  period  is  con- 
dufled  after  the  manner  of  a  climax^  which  we  expect  to  find 
growing  to  the  laft. 

The  proper  difpofition  of  fuch  circnmftances  in  a  Sentence, 
is  often  attended  with  confiderable  trouble,  in  order  to  adjull 
them  fo,  as  fliall  ccnfift  equally  with  the  perfpicuity  and  the 
grace  of  the  period.  Though  neceiTnry  parts,  they  are,  h.ow- 
ever,  like  unfljapely  ftoncs  in  a  building,  which  try  the  fkill  of 
an  arliil,  where  to  pine."  them  with  the  leaffc  ofii*nce.  **  Jun- 
**  gantur,"  fays  Qn^intilian,  "  quo  congruuat  maxime  j  ficut  in 
*'  llru6lura  faxoruat  tudium,  ciiam  ipfa  enormitas  invenit  cui 
?.pplicari,  et  in  iquo  poflit  infiftere."* 

The  clofe  is  always  an  ur/fuitable  place  for  tliem.  V/hen  the 
fenfe  admits  it,  the  fooner  they  are  difpatched,  generally  fpeak- 
ing,  the  better ;  that  the  more  important  and  figniiicant  words 
may  poffefs  the  laft  place,  quite  difcncumbered.  It  is  a  rule, 
too,  never  to  crowd  too  many  circumftances  together,  but  ratheJr 
to  interfperfe  them  in  different  parts  of  the  Sentence,  joined 
with  the  capital  words  on  which  they  depend  i  provided  that 
care  be  taken,  as  I  before  dire£led,  not  to  clog  thofe  capital 
rvords  with  them.  For  inftance,  when  Dean  Swift  fays,  "What 
**  I  had  the  honour  of^mcntioning  to  your  Iiordfhip,  feme  time 
**  ago,  in  cOnverfation,  was  not  a  new  thought."  (Letter  to 
the  Earl  of  Oxford.)  'I'hefe  two  circumftances,  fome  time  ngo^ 
and  in  convcrfation,  which  are  here  put  together,  would  have 
had  a  better  effedl  dir.joined,  thus  :  *'  What  I  had  the  honour, 
*'  fome  time  ago,  of  meiltionln^  to  your  Lordlliip  in  converfa- 
*'  tion."  And  in  the  following  Sentence  of  Lord  Bclingbroke's  : 
(Remarks  on  the  Hiftory  of  England)  *' A  monarchy,  limited 
"like  ours,  may  be  placed,  for  aught  I  know,  as  it  has  been 
*'  often  reprefentcd,  juft  in  the  middle  pouit,  from  whence  a 
**  deviation  leads,  on  the  One  hitnd/  to  tyranny,  and  on  the  other, 
**  to  anarchy."  The  arrangement  would  liave  been  happier 
thus  :  "  A  monarchy,  limited  like  ours,  may,  for  aught  I  know, 
**  be  placed,  as  it  has  often  been  rcprelented,  juft  in  the  middle 
«*  point,  &c."  I  (hall 

*  "  Let  tliem  be  inferted  wherever  tlie  happicfl  place  for  them  can  be  found  ; 
"  as,  in  a  fuixSlure  compoicd  ot  rough  ftcius, ihc-re  are  always  places  where  tiic 
*'  TOoft  irregular  and  unfliapcly  inay  find  fome  acijacciit  Oiic  to  which  it  caiibe 
"  joined,  and  ftmi.  bulis  oo  which  it  may  reft." 


LrcT.  XII.     STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  t-3 

I  fliali  give  or.ly  one  rule  move,  relating  to  the  Strength  of  a 
Sentence,  which  is,  that  in  the  members  of  a  Sentence,  where 
two  things  are  compared  or  contrafted  to  one  another ;  whcrc 
either  a  rcfemblance  or  an  oppoiitien  is  intended  tvi  be  exprefled; 
feme  refsmblr.nce,  in  the  language  and  conftru6lion,  fliould'be 
prcfervcd.  f  For  when  the  tilings  themfeh^^es  corrcfppnd  to  eacli 
ether,  we  naturally  expect!:  to  find  the  words  correfponding  too, 
We  are  difappcinted  when  it  isotherwifc;  and  the  conipavifon, 
or  contraft,  appears  more  imperfect.  'J'hus,  when  Lord  Bo- 
hngbroks  fays,  **  The  laughers  w  ill  be  for  thofe  who  have  moll 
*'  wit;  the  ierious  part  of  mankind,  for  thofe  who  hiave  moft 
*'  rcafon  on  their  fide  ;"  (Diffcrt.  on  Parties,  Pref.)  the  oppo- 
fition  would  have  been  more  complete,  if  he  had  faid,  *' The 
**  laughers  will  be  for  thofe  who  have  moll  wit ;  the  forious, 
"  for  thofe  who  have  moftteafon  on  their  fide."  The  follow- 
ing pafiage  from  Mr.  Pope's  Preface  to  his  Homer,  fully  exem- 
plifies the  rules  I  am  now^  gi^'i"g '  "  Homer  was  the  greater 
*'  genius  ;  Virgil,  the  better  artift  :  in  the  one,  we  mod  admire 
*'  the  man  •,  in  tlie  otlier,  the  work.  Homer  hurries  us  with  a 
*'  comm.anding  impetuofity  ;  Virgil  leads  us  with  an  attraclive 
**  majcfly.  Homer  fcatlers  with  a  generous  profuOon;  Virgil 
•*  bellows  with  a  careful  magnificence.  Homer,  like  the  Nile, 
**  pours  out  his  riches  with  a  fudden  overilow  ;  V'irgil,  like 
*'  a  river  in  its  banks,  with  a  conftant  flream.  And  when  we 
*'  look  upon  their  machines,  Homer  feems,  like  his  own  Jupi- 
*'  ter  in  his  terrors,  (liaking  Olympus,  featiering  the  lightnings, 
*'  and  firing  the  heavens ;  Virgil,  like  the  fame  Power,  in  his 
*'  benevolence,  counfelling  with  the  gods,  laying  plans  forcm- 
*'  pives,  and  ordering  his  whole  creation."  Periods  thus  con- 
ihucled,  when  introduced  with  propriety,  and  not  returning 
too  often,  have  a  fcnfible  beauty.  But  we  muft  beware  of  earrv- 
ing  our  attention  to  this  beauty  too  far.  It  ought  only  to  be 
occafionally  ftudied,  when  comparifon  or  oppofiiion  of  obje£ls 
naturally  leads  to  it.  If  fuch  a  confiruclicn  as  this  be  aimed 
at  in  all  our  Sentences,  it  betrays  into  a  dilagreeable  uniformity ; 
produces  a  regularly  returning  clink  in  the  period,  which  tires 
the  ear ;  and  plainly  difcovcrs  afibiftation,  Among  the  anciu^s, 
the  flyle  of  Ifocraies  is  iaiilty  in  this  rcfprtSt  ;  and,  on  that  ac- 
count, by  fome  of  their  bell  critics,  particularly  by  Dionyfius 
of  Halicarnafius,  he  is  fcvcrely  ccnfured. 

Th-5 


174  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.    Lect.XII. 

This  finifhes  what  I  had  to  fay  concerning  Sentences,  confider- 
ed,  with  refpe6l  to  their  meaning,  under  the  three  heads  of 
Perfpicuity,  Unity,  and  Strength.  It  is  a  fubjeft  on  which  I 
have  infilled  fully,  for  two  reafons  :  lirft,  becaufe  it  is  a  fub- 
je£t,  which,  by  its  nature,  can  be  rendered  more  didadlic,  and 
fubje6l:ed  more  to  precife  rule,  than  many  other  fubjeds  of 
criticifm  ;  and  next,  becaufe  it  appears  to  ine  of  confidcrable 
importance  and  ufc. 

For,  though  many  of  thofe  attentions,  wliich  I  have  been 
xecommemling,  may  appear  minute,  yet  their  cfFccl,  upon 
■vt-riting  and  ftyle,  is  much  greater  than  might,  at  firfl:,  be  im- 
agined. A  fentimcnt  which  is  exprefled  in  a  period,  clearly, 
ncatiy,  and  happily  arranged,  makes  alv.'ays  a  flronger  impreC- 
fion  on  the  mind,  than  one  that  is  any  how  feeble  or  embarraft- 
ed.  Ev  ry  one  feels  this  upon  a  comparifon  :  and  if  the  ef- 
fec'^  be  fenfible  in  one  Sentence,  how  much  more  in  a  whok 
difcuurfe,  or  compoution,  that  is  made  up  of  fuch  Sentences  ? 

The  fundamental  rule  of  the  confl:ru6lion  of  Sentences,  and 
into  which  all  others  might  be  refolved,  undoubtedly  is,  to 
communicate,  in  the  cleyrefl.  and  moft  natural  order,  the  ideas 
which  we  mean  to  transfufe  into  the  minds  of  others.  Every 
arrangement  that  does  moft  juftice  to  the  fenfe,  and  exprefflis 
it  to  moft  advantage,  ftrikes  us  as  beautiful.  To  this  point 
have  tended  all  the  rules  I  have  given.  And,  indeed,  did  men 
always  think  clearly,  and  were  they,  at  the  fame  time,  fully 
maftcrs  of  the  Language  in  which  they  write,  there  would  be 
occafion  for  few  rules.  Their  Sentences  would  then,  ©f 
courfe,  acquire  all  thofe  properties  of  Precifion,  Unity,  and 
Strength,  which  I  have  recommended.  For  we  may  r^ft  af- 
fured,  that,  whenever  we  exprefs  ourfelves  ill,  there  is,  befides* 
the  mifmanagement  of  Language,  for  the  moft  part,  feme 
miftake  in  our  manner  of  conceiving  the  fubjeft.  Embar- 
rafled,  obfcure,  and  feeble  Sentences,  are  generally,  if  not  aJ- 
^vays,  the  refult  of  embarrafted,  obfcure,  and  feeble  thought. 
Thought  and  Language  a£l  and  re-ad  upon  each  other  mutually. 
Logic  and  Rhetoric  have  here,  as  in  many  other  cafes,  a  ftri£b 
connexion  ;  and  he  that  is  learning  to  arrange  his  Sentences 
with  accuracy  and  order,  is  learning,  at  the  fame  lime,  to  think 
with  accuracy  and  order ;  an  obfervation  which  alone  will' 
juftify  ail  the  care  and  attention  we  have  beftowed  on  this 
fabiec^  LECrURE 


LECTURE        XIII. 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.    HARMONT. 

JljLiTHERTO  we  have  confidered  Sentences,  with 
refpe£l  to  their  meaning,  under  the  heads  of  Perfpicuity,  Unity, 
and  Strength.  '  Wc  are  now  to  confider  them,  with  refpe£l  to 
their  found,  their  Harmony,  or  agreeablenefs  to  the  ear  j  whicli 
was  the  laft  quahty  belonging  to  them  that  I  propofcd  to  treat 
of. 

^Sound  is  a  quality  much  inferior  to  fcnfe  ;  yet  fuch  as  muft 
not  be  difregarded.  For,  as  long  as  founds  are  the  vehicle  of 
conveyance  for  our  ideas,  there  will  be  always  a  very  conHdcra- 
ble  connexion  between  the  idea  which  is  conveyed,  and  the  na- 
ture of  the  found  which  conveys  it.  Pleafmg  ideas  can  hardly 
be  tranfmitted  to  the  mind,  by  means  of  harfh  and  difagreeable 
founds.  The  imagination  revolts  as  foon  as  it  hears  them  ut- 
tered. "  Nihil,"  fays  Quintilian,  "  poteft  intrare  in  afFccium, 
**  quod  in  aure,  vclut  quodam  vcllibulo,  ftatim  offcndit."*  *  Mu- 
fic  has  naturally  a  great  power  over  all  men  to  prompt  and  fa- 
cilitate certain  emotions  :  infomuch,  that  there  are  hardly  any 
difpofitions  which  we  wilh  to  raife  in  others,  but  certain  founds 
may  be  found  concordant  to  thofe  difpofitions,  and  tending  to 
promote  them.  Now,  Language  can,  in  fome  degree,  be  ren- 
dered capable  of  this  power  of  mufic ;  a  circumftance  which 
mull  needs  heighten  our  idea  of  Language  as  a  wonderful  in- 
vention. Not  content  with  fimply  interpreting  our  ideas  to 
others,  it  can  give  them  thofe  ideas  enforced  by  correfponding 
founds  ;  and,  to  the  pleafure  of  communicated  thought,  can  ad<^ 
the  new  and  feparate  pleafure  of  melody. 
■  In  the  Harmony  of  Periods,  two  things  may  be  confidered. 
Flrfl,  Ag  .eablc  found,  or  modulation  in  general,  without  any 

particular 

•  «  Nothing  can  enter  inlQ  the  afrcv^ions  which  durables  at  the  thrtfliold, 
"  by  offending  the  e^r." 


x:5  HAIIMON^  OF  SENTCN'CES.      Lect.  Xllt. 

particubr  exprcffion  :  Next,  The  fouivl  fo  ordcra!,  as  to  b.- 
comc  cxproirivc  of  the  fciifc.     The  firlt  is  tl\c  more  coaimon  j 

l^-  •••:••        •  I  .  *, 

.  '  aMc  found,  in  general,  as  the 

property  of  a  well-conftruclcd  Sentence :  ami,  asit  was  of  profe 

S'^ntrnccs  v     '         '  '  '  ',  we  HmH  confjMc  our:" 

to  •ta.'m  uni       .  .uty  of  mufical  conilra   .  . 

?  ■  pvoie,  it  is.  pl-in,  will  depend  upon  two  things ;  the  choice  of 
words,  and  the  •<  '   "    m.  l 

I  begin  witli  t'  ■      !  >  ♦,  on  which  head,  there  is 

Act  much  to  be  laid,  t^ulets  I  were  to  dcfcend  into  a  tedious 
an.'  ■       ■         ■  ■         .  •    '      i*  the  fcveral  1  •• 

or  !      ^  ^  :    .       _    ioft.     It  is  c\  i  ".     ', 

that  words  arc<nofl  pgrecablc  to  the  car  which  arc  compofed  of 
fmooth  aii<l  li<]ujc1  found?,  wlierc  there  is  a  proper  intermixture 
of  vo\\cls  and  confonants ;  without  too  many  harlli  confonants 
rubbing  aj^ainfl  each  other  i  or  too  many  open  vowels  in  fuc- 
ceflion,  to  caufe  a  hiatus,  ordifai;;reeablc  aperture  of  the  mouth. 
It  niny  always  be  afuancd  as  a  principle,  that,  whatever  founds 
sre  diHicult  in  pronunciation,  are,  in  the  fame  proportion,  harfli 
and  painful  to  the  ear.  Vowels  give  foftnefs  ;  con fl'vn ants, 
ftrength  to  the  found  of  words.  I  '1  he  mufic  of  Language  re- 
quires a  juft  proportion  of  both  ;  and  will  be  hurt,  will  be  ren- 
dered cither  grating  or  efTcmlnate  by  an  excefs  of  either.  Long 
wo-ds  are  commonly  more  agreeable  to  thcear  tha-n  monofylli- 
bles.  They  plcafe  it  by  the  compofition,  or.fucce(fion  of  founds 
which  they  j'refent  to  it:  and,  accordingly,  the  moft  mufical 
Languages  abound  niofl  in  them.  Among  words  of  any  lengtli, 
tlibfe  are  the  nioft  mufical,  which  do  not  run  wholly  either 
upon  long  or  fhort  fyllables,  but  are  compofeil  of  an  iniermlx- 
ture  of  tJteni  ;  fuch  as,  repent^  pndinf,  vtlui/y,  ohr.'fv,  inc/rprn- 
denty  impctirofiiy. 

The  next  head,  rcfpec^ing  the  Harmony  which  refults  from 
a  proper  arrangement  of  the  M'ords  and  nicmbrrs  of  a  period,  is 
more  complex,  jtnd  of  greater  nicety.  '  For,  let  tlie  words  thcni- 
felvcs  be  ever  fo  well  eliofen,  and  well  founding,  yet,  if  they 
'  t>e  ill  dilpcfed,  th<,*  mufic  of  the  Sentence  is  utterly  loft.  In 
the  liarmonlous  (IruiLturc  and  -tlifpofitioji  of  periods,  no  writer 
whatever,  ancient  or  niodern,  equals  Cicero,     lie  had  Itu  lied 

this 


Lect.XIII.     imRMONY  of  sentences.  177^ 

this  with  care  ;  and  ums  fond,  perhaps  to  excefs,  of  what  he 
Ccdis,  the  "  Plena  'ac  numerofa  oratio."  We  ne|^'  only  open 
his  writings,  to  find  inftances  that  will  render  tlie  efFeft  of 
muHcal  Language  fenfible  to  every  ear.  What,  for  example, 
can  be  more  full,  round,  and  fwcUing,  than  the  following  fen- 
tence  of  the  4th  Oration  again  ft  Catiline  ?  "  Cogitate  quantis 
**  laboribus  fundatum  imperium,  quanta  virtute  (labilitam  lib- 
"  ertatem,  quanta  Deorum  benignitate  auftas  exaggeratafque 
"  fortunas,  una  nox  pene  delerit."  In  Englifii,  we  may  take, 
for  an  inftance  of  a  mufical  Sentence,  the  following  from  Mil- 
ton, in  hisTreatife  on  Education  :  "We  (hall  conduit  you  to 
**  a  hill-fide,  laborious,  Indeed,  at  the  firft  afcent  j  but  elfe,  fo 
**  fmooth,  fo  green,  fo  full  of  goodly  profpe£ls,  and  melodious 
*'  founds  on  every  fide,  that  the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  more 
**  charming."  Every  thing  in  this  fentence  confpires  to  pro- 
mote the  Hawnony,  The  words  are  happily  chofen  ;  full  of 
liquid  and  foft  founds  ;  laboriouStfmjotk,  gne?iy  goodly,  melodious^ 
charming  :  and  thefe  words  fo  artfully  arranged,  that,  were  we 
to  alter  the  collocation  of  any  one  of  them,  we  fliould,  prcfent- 
ly,  be  fenfible  of  the  melody  fufFering.  For,  let  us  oblerve, 
how  finely  the  members  of  the  period  fwell  one  above  another. 
"  So  fmooth,  fo  green,"- — *'fo  full  of  goodly  profpedls,  and  melo- 
*'  dious  founds  on  evei*y  fide  •," — till  the  ear,  prepared  by  this 
gradual  rife,  is  conducted  to  that  full  clofe  on  which  it  refts 
with  plcafure  ; — ''  that  the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  more 
**  charming." 

The  ftrufture  of  periods,  then,  being  fufceptlble  of  a  melo- 
dy very  fenfible  to  the  ear,  our  next  inquiry  ftiould  be,  How 
this  melodious  flrufture  is  formed,  what  are  the  principles  of 
it,  and  by  what  laws  is  it  regulated  ?  And,  upon  this  fubjeit, 
were  I  to  follow  the  ancient  rhetoricIanG,  it  would  be  eafy  to 
give  a  great  variety  of  rules.  For  here'  th'v.y  have  entered  into 
a  minute  and  particular  detail ;  mofe  particular,  indeed,  than 
on  any  other  head  that  regards  Language,  They  hold,  that  to 
profe  as  well  as  to  verfe,  there  befong  certain  numbers,  lefs 
ftrift,  indeed,  yet  fuch  as  can  be  al^ertained  by  rule.  They 
go  fo  far  as  to  fpecify  the  feet  as  th^ey  are  called,  that  is,  the 
fuccefiion  of  long  and  fliort  fyllables,  \^hich  (hould  enter  into 
the  dilPercnt  members  of  a  Sentence,  and  to  ihovf  what  the 
Z  effe<a 


173  HARMONY  0F  SENTENCES.     Lect.  XIIL 

efFe£l:  of  each  of  tliefc  will  be.  Wherever  they  treat  of  the 
flruclure  o£  Sentences,  it  is  always  the  luuTic  of  them  that 
makes  the  pr'incipal  obje6l.  Cicero  and  (.)uintiliaii  are  full  of 
this.  The  other  quaiitics  of  Prccifioii,  Unity,  and  .Strength, 
which  we  confider  as  of  chief  importance,  they  handle  flightly  ; 
but  when  they  come  to  tlie  '"'■  junclura  et  tiuments"  the  modula- 
tion and  harmony,  there  they  are  copious.  Dionyfius  of  Hal- 
icarnaffiis,  one  of  the  molt  judicious  critics  of  antiquity,  has 
written  a  treatife  on  the  Compofiuon  of  IVords  In  a  Scittc'ricey  which 
is  altogether  confined  to  their  mufical  effecl.  He  makes  the 
excellency  of  a  Sentence  to  confift  in  four  things  :  firil,  in  the 
fu'eetnefs  of  fingle  founds ;  fecondly,  in  the  compofition  of 
founds,  that  is,  the  numbers  or  feet ;  thirdly,  in  change  or 
variety  of  found  ;  and  fourthly,  in  found  fuited  to  the  fenfe. 
On  all  thefe  points  he  writes  with  great  accuracy  and  refine- 
mcnt ;  and  is  very  worthy  of  being  confulted  ;  though,  were 
one  now  to  write  a  book  on  the  (Irutlure  of  Sentences,  we 
(liould  expe£l  to  find  the  fubjedl  treated  of  in  a  more  extenfive 
manner. 

In  modern  times,  this  whole  fubje£t  of  the  mufical  ftruclure 
of  difcourfe,  it  is  plain,  has  been  much  lefs  ftudied  ;  and,  in- 
deed, for  feveral  reafons,  can  be  much  lefs  fubjected  to  rule. 
The  reafons,  it  will  b-^  neceilary  to  give,  both  to  juftify  my 
not  following  the  track  of  the  ancient  rhetoricians  on  this  fub- 
je£t,  and  to  {how  how  it  has  come  to  pafs,  that  a  part  of.com- 
pofition,  which  once  made  fo  coufpicuous  a  figure,  now  draws 
much  lefs  attention. 

In  the  firft  place,  the  ancient  Languages,  I  mean  the  Greek 
and  the  Roman,  were  much  more  fufceptible  than  ours,  of  the 
graces  and  the  powers  of  melody.  The  quantities  of  their 
fyllables  were  more  fixed  and  determined  ;  their  words  were 
longer,  and  more  fc:'Cjti!'i3 ;  their  metliod  of  varying  the  termi- 
nations of  nouns  and  verl^s,  both  introduced  a  greater  variety 
of  liquid  founds,  and  freed  them  from  that  multiplicity  of  little 
auxiliary  words  which  we'"  are  obliged  to  employ ;  and,  what 
is  of  the  greated  confequ.'incc,  tlic  inverfions  which  their  Lan- 
guages allowed,  gave  th^m  the  power  of  placing  their  w-ords 
in  whatever  order  was,  mod  fuited  to  a  mufical  arrangement. 
All  thefe  were  great  advantages  which  they  enjoyed  above  us, 
for  harr-iony  of  period. 

In   * 


Lect.XIII.     harmony  OF  SFNTENCES.  17^ 

In   the  next  place,  the  Greeks  and  Romans,   the  former 
cfpccially,  were,    in  trutli,  much  more  mufical  nations  than 
ve  j  their  genius  was   more  turned  to  delight  in  the  melody 
of  fpeech.     Mufic  is  known  to  have  been  a  more  extenfive  art 
among  them  than  it  is  with  us  ;  more  univerfally  ftudied,  and 
applied  to  a  greater  variety  of  objefts.     Several  learned  men, 
particularly  the  Abbe  du  Bos,  in  his  Refledicns  on  Poetry  and 
Painting,  have  clearly  proved,  that  the  theatrical  compofitions 
of  the  ancients,  both  their  tragedies  and  comedies,  were  fet 
to  a  kind  of  mufic.     Whence,  the  modos  fecit ^   and  the   Tmis 
dextris  et  fitiifris,  prefixed  to  the  editions  of  Terence's  Plays. 
All  fort  of  declamation  and  public  fpenking,  was  carried  on  by 
them  in  a  much  more  mufical  tone  tlian  it  is  among   us.     It 
approached  to  a  kind  of  chanting  or  re'citative.     Among  the 
Athenians,    there  was  what  was  called  the  Nomic   Melody  ; 
or  a  particular  meafure  prefcribed   to  the  public  officers,  in 
which  they  were  to  promulgate  the  laws  to  the  people*,  lefl,  by 
reading  them  with  improper  tones,  the  laws  might  be  expofed 
to  contempt.     Among  the  Romans,  there  is  a  noted  f\ory  of 
C  Gracchus,  when  he  was  declaiming  in  public,  having  a  rnu- 
fician  Handing   at  his  back,   in  order  to  give  him  the  proper 
tones  with  a  pipe  or   flute.     Even  when   pronouncing  thofe 
terrible  tribunitial  harangues,  by  which  he  inflamed  the  one 
half  of  the  citizens  of  Rome  againft  the  other,  this  attention  to 
the  mufic  of  fpeech  was,  in  thofe  times,  it  fcems,  thought  nec- 
eflary  to  fuccefs.     Quintilian,  though  he  condemns  the  excels 
of  this  fort  of  pronunciation,  yet  allows  a  "  cantus  obfcurior"  to 
be  a  beauty  in  a  public  fpeaker.    Hence,  that  variety  of  accents, 
acute,  grave,  and  circumflex,  which  we  find  marked  upon  the 
Greek  fyllables,   to  exprefs,   not  the  quantity  of  them,  bur  the 
tone   in   which   they   w^^re   to  be  fpoken  j    the  application  of 
which  is  now  wholely  unknown  to  us.     And  though  the  Ro- 
mans did  not  mark  thofe  accents  in   their  writing,  yet  it  ap- 
pears from  Quintilian,  that  they  ufed  them  in  pronunciation  : 
"  ^lantuin,  quale^*  fays  he,  **  comparantes  gravi,  interrogantes 
**  acuto  tcnore   concludant."     As   mufic  then,  was  an    obje<9: 
much  more  attended  to  in  fpeech,   among  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans, than  it  is  with  us  ;   as,  in  all  kinds  of  public  fpenking, 
they  employed  a  much  greater  variety  of  notes,  of  tones,  or.  in- 

flexioh* 


iSo  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.      Lect.  XIIL 

flexions  of  voice,  than  we  ufe  ;  this  is  one  clear  reafon  of  their 
paying  a  greater  attention  to  that  conftru£tion  of  Sentences, 
which  migiit  bed  fuit  this  mufical  pronunciation. 

It  is  farther  known,  that,  in  confcqucnce  of  the  genius  of 
their  Languages,  and  of  their  manner  of  pronouncing  them, 
the  mufical  arrangement  of  Sentences,  did,  in  fa61:,  produce  a 
greater  effe£l  in  public  fpeaking  among  them,  than  it  could 
poflibly  do  in  any  modern  oration  ;  another  reafon  why  it  de- 
ferved  to  be  more  ftudied.  Cicero,  in  his  treatife,  entitled,  Or- 
atory  tells  us,  "  Conciones  f?epe  exclamare  vidi,  cum  verba  apte 
cecidilTent.  Id  enim  expefbant  aures."*  And  he  gives  a  re- 
markable inftance  of  the  efle6l  of  a  harmonious  period  upon  a 
-whole  aflembly,  from  a  Sentence  of  one  of  Carbo's  Orations, 
fpoken  in  his  hearing.  The  Sentence  was,  "  Patris  diclum  fa- 
**  piens  temeritas  filii  comprobravit."  By  means  of  the  found 
of  M'hich,  alone,  he  tells  us,  "  Tantus  clamor  concionis  excita- 
"  tus  eft,  ut  prorfus  admirabile  efTet."  He  makes  us  remark 
the  feet  of  which  thefe  words  confift,  to  which  he  afcribes 
the  pov/er  of  the  melody  ;  and  fnows  how,  by  altering  the  col- 
location, the  whole  effect  would  be  loll  j  as  thus  :  "  Patris  dic- 
•*  tum  fapiens  comprobravit  temeritas  filii."  Now,  though  it 
he  true  that  Carbo's  Sentence  is  extremely  mufical,  and  would 
be  agreeable,  at  this  day,  to  any  audience,  yet  I  cannot  believe 
that  an  Engliih  Sentence,  equally  harmonious,  would,  by  its 
harmony  alone,  produce  any  fuch  efleft  on  a  Britifti  audienfce, 
or  excite  any  fucu  wonderful  applaufe  and  admiration,  as  Cice- 
ro informs  us  this  of  Carbo  produced;  Our  northern  ears  are 
too  coarfe  and  obtufe.  The  melody  of  Speech  has  lefs  power 
over  us ;  and  by  our  fimpler  and  plainer  method  of  uttering 
words.  Speech  is,  in  truth,  accompanied  with  lefs  melody  thau 
•it  was  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans. f 

For  thefe  reafons,  I  am  of  opinion,  tliat  it  is  vain  to  think  of 
beftowin^  the  fame  attention  upon  the  harmonious  Itrutlure  of 

our  *  > 

*  "I  have  often  been  witnefs  to  bnrfts  of  exclamation  in  the  public  aflem- 
"  bliesj  when  Sentences  doled  muficariy;  for  tjiat  is  a  pltalurc  which  the  ear 
"  cxpecls." 

•)•  "  In  ^'erfu  rjiiidem,  tbeatra  tota  exclamant  fi  fuit  una  fyllaba  ^.wt  hrevior 
"  aut  longior.  Ncc  vero  multiiudo  pedes  novit,  nee  uilos  luimeros  tenet ;  ncc 
"  iiiud  quod  offendit,  ant  cur,  aut  in  quo  ofttndat,  intciligit ;  t-t  tamen  omnium 
"  longitudiniim  ft  hievitatum  in  fonis,  •ficut  acutjirum,  giaviumque  vocuin, 
•'  judicium  ipfa  natura  in  auribus  noftris  collocavit."        Cicero,  Orator, c.  j  j . 


Lect.XIII.   '  harmony  of  sentences.  i8t 

our  Sentences,  that  was  teftowed  by  thefe  ancient  nation?. 
The  clo£lrine  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  critics,  on  this  head,  has 
mifled  fonie  to  imagine,  that  it  might  be  equally  applied  to  our 
tongue  ;  and  that  our  profe  writing  might  be  regulated  by 
fpondees  and  trochees,  and  iambus's  and  pccons,  and  other 
metrical  feet.  But,  firfl.,  our  words  cannot  be  meafured,  or, 
at  lead,  can  be  meafured  very  imperfe^lly  by  any  feet  of  this 
kind.  For,  the  quantity,  the  length  and  fliortnefs  of  our  fyl- 
lables,  is  not,  by  any  means,  fo  fixed  and  fubjeded  to  rule,  as 
in  the  Greek  and  Roman  Tongues  ;  but  very  often  left  arbitra- 
ry, and  determined  by  the  emphafis,  and  the  fenfe.  Next, 
though  our  profe  could  admit  of  fuch  metrical  regulation,  yet, 
from  our  plainer  method  of  pronouncing  all  fort  of  difcoui'fe, 
the  effe6l  would  not  be  at  all  fo  fcnfible  to  the  ear,  nor  be 
reliflied  with  fo  much  pleafure,  as  among  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans :  and,  laflly,  this  whole  dodtrine  about  the  meafures 
and  numbers  of  profe,  even  as  it  is  delivered  by  the  ancient  rhet- 
oricians themfelves,  is,  in  truth,  in  a  great  meafure,  loofe  and 
uncertain.  It  appears,  indeed,  that  the  melody  of  difcourfe 
was  a  matter  of  infinitely  more  attention  to  them,  than  ever  it 
has  been  to  the  moderns.  But,  though  they  write  a  great  deal 
about  it,  they  have  never  been  able  to  reduce  it  to  any  rules 
which  couid  be  of  real  ufe  in  pra£lice.  If  we  confult  Cicero's 
Orator,  where  this  point  is  difcufied  with  the  mofl  minutenefs, 
.we  will  fee  how  much  thefe  ancient  critics  differed  from  one 
another,  about  the  feet  proper  for  the  conclufion,  and  other 
parts  of  a  Sentence  ;  and  how  much,  after  ^all,  was  left  to  the 
judgment  of  the  ear.  Nor,  indeed,  is  it  poffible  to  give  precife 
rules  concerning  this  matter,  in  any  Language  ;  as  all  profe  com- 
pofition  muft  be  allowed  to  run  loofe  in  its  numbers ;  and  ac- 
cording as  the  tenor  of  a  difcourfe  varies,  the  modulation  of 
Sentences  mull  vary  infinitely. 

But,  although  I  apprehend,  that  this  mufical  arrangement 
Cannot  be  reduced  into  a  fyftem,  I  am  far  from  thinking  that 
it  is  a  quality  to  be  rieglc<Sled  in  compofition.  On  the  contra- 
.ry,  I  hold  its  effedl  to  be  very  confiderable ;  and  that  every  one 
who  {Indies  to  write  with  grace,  much  more,  who  feeks  to  pro- 
nounce in  public,  witli  fuccefs,  will  be  obliged  to  attend  to  it 
not  a  little.  But  it  is  his  ear,  cultivated  by  attention  and  prac- 
tice, that  mull  chiefly  dire<Sl  Iiim.     For  any  rules  that  can  be 

given. 


iS2  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.      Lect.  XIH. 

given,  oil  this  fubjefV,  are  very  general.  Some  rules,  however, 
there  arc,  which  may  be  of  ufe  to  form  tlie  ear  to  the  proper 
Harmony  of  difcourfe.  I  proceed  to  mention  fuch  as  appear  tQ 
me  mo  ft  material. 

There  are  two  tilings  on  which  the  mu fie  of  a  Sentence  chief- 
ly depends.  Thefe  are,  the  proper  diltribution  of  the  fevcral 
members  of  it ;  and,  the  clofe  or  cadence  of  the  whole.    , 

Firft,  I  fay,  the  diftribution  of  the  fcveral  meml^ers  is  to  be 
carefully  attended  to.  It  is  of  importance  to  obferve,  that, 
whatever  is  eafy  and  agreeable  to  the  organs  of  Speech,  always 
founds  grateful  to  the  ear.  ,  While  a  period  is  going  on,  the 
termuiation  of  each  of  its  members  forms  a  paufe,  or  reft,  in 
pronouncing  :  and  thefe  refts  fhould  be  fo  diftributed  as  to 
make  the  courfe  of  the  breathing  eafy,  and,  at  the  fame  time, 
fhould  fall  at  fuch  diftances,  as  to  bear  a  certain  mufical  pro- 
portion to  each  other.  This  will  be  beft  illullrated  by  exam- 
ples. The  following  Sentence  is  from  Archblfhop  Tillotfon  : 
*'  This  difcourfe  concerning  the  eafmefs  of  God's  commands 
**  does,  all  along,  fuppofc  and  acknowledge  the  difficulties  of 
*'  the  firft  entrance  upon  a  religious  courfe ;  except,  only  in 
•*  thofe  perfons  who  have  had  the  happinefs  to  be  trained  up 
*'  to  religion  by  the  eafy  and  infenfibie  degrees  of  a  pious  and 
*'  virtuous  education."  Here  there  is  no  Harmony ;  nay,  there 
is  fome  degree  of  harfhnefs  and  unpleafantnefs  ;  owing  princi- 
pally to  this,  that  there  is,  properly,  no  more  than  one  paufe  or 
reft  in  the  Sentence,  falling  betwixt  the  two  members  into 
which  it  is  divided  -,  each  of  which  is  io  long  as  to  occafion  a 
confiderable  ftretch  of  the  breath  in  pronouncing  it. 

Obferve,  now,  on  the  other  hand,  the  cafe  with  wliich  the 
following  Sentence,  from  Sir  William  Tempre,  glides  along, 
and  the  graceful  intervals  at  which  the  paufes  are  placed.  He 
is  fpeaking  farcailically  of  man  :  "  But,  God  be  dianked,  his 
"  pride  is  greater  than  his  ignorance,  and  what  he  wants  in 
"  knowledge,  he  fuppliesby  fufficiency.  When  lie  has  I'ooked' 
**  about  him,  as  far  as  he  can,  he  concludes,  there  is  no  nrorc 
**  to  be  feen  ;  when  he  is  at  the  end  of  his  line,  he  is  at  the- 
*'  bottom  of  the  ocean  ;  when  he  has  fliot  his  beft,  he  is  furc 
**  none  ever  did,  or  ever  can,  (hoot  better,  or  beyond  it.  His 
V  own  reafon  he  holds  to  be  the  certain  meafure  of  truth  ;  and 
>  "his 


Lect.XIII.     harmony  of  SEN^FENCES.         .      183 

**  his  own  kaowledge,  of  what  is  pofTiblc  in  nature.*'*  Herei 
every  thing  is,  at  once,  eafy  to  the  breath,  and  grateful  to  the 
ear ;  and,  it  is  this  fort  of  flowing  meai'ure,  this  regular  and 
proportional  di\  ifion  of  the  niembevs  of  his  Sentences,  which 
renders  Sir  William  Temple's  flyle  always  agreeable.  I  muft 
obferve,  at  the  fame  time,  that  a  Sentence,  with  too  many  refts, 
and  thefe  placed  at  intervals  too  apparently  nieafurcd  and  regu- 
lar, is  apt  to  favour  of  afFeftation. 

The  next  thing  to  be  attended  to,  is,  the  clofe  or  cadence  of 
the  Whole  Sentence,  wliich,  as  it  is  always  the  part  moll  [i^.n- 
iible  to  the  ear,  demands  the  greateft  care.  So  Quintilian  : 
*'  Non  igltur  durum  fit,  neque  abruptum,  quo  animi,  velut  re- 
*'  fpirant  ac  roHciuntur.  Hxc  eft  feiles  orationis  ;  hoc  auditor 
*'  expectat;  hie  laus  omnis  declamat."f  The  only  important 
rule  that  can  be  given  here,  is,  that  when  we  aim  at  dignity  or 
elevation,  the  found  lliould  be  made  to  grow  to  the  laft ;  the 
longefl:  members  of  the  period,  and  the  fulleft  and  moll  fo- 
norous  words,  Ihould  be  refcrved  to  the  conclufion.  As  an  ex- 
ample of  this,  the  following  Sentence  of  Mr.  Addifon's  may  be 
given :  "It  fills  the  mind  (fpeaking  of  fight)  with  the  largefb 
"  variety  of  ideas ;  converfes  with  its  object  at  the  greateft  dif.. 
**  tance  j  and  continues  the  longell  in  aflion,  without  being 
"  tired  or  fatiated  with  its  proper  enjoyments."  Every  reader 
muft  be  fenfihle  of  a  beauty  here,  both  in  the  proper  divifion 
of  the  members  and  paufes,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  Sen- 
tence is  rounded,  and  conducted  to  a  full  and  harmonious  clofe. 

The  fame  holds  in  melody,  that  I  obfervcd  to  take  place  -witli 
refpedl  to  fignificancy  ;  that  a  falling  off  at  the  end,  always 
hurts  greatly.  For  this  reafon,  particles,  pronouns,  and  little 
«  words, 

•  Or  this  inftanc*.  He  is  addrciling  himfelf  to  Indy  ElTcx,  upon  thp 
death  of  her  child  :  "  I  was  once  in  Iiope,  that  what  was  To  violent*  could 
"  not  be  long  :  hut,  when  I  obfervccJ  your  grief  to  <^row  rtrongtr  with  age, 
■"  and  to  incrcife,  like  a  ftrcain,  the  farther  it  ran;  wlicn  I  law  it  drsw  out 
"  to  fuch  unhappy  confcquenccs,  and  to  threaten,  110  Id's  than  your  child, 
"  your  heattli,  and  your  life,  I  could  no  longer  forbear  this  endeavour,  nor 
"  end  it  without  bcgj^ing  of  you,  for  Cod's  fake,  and  for  your  own,  for  your 
•'  children,  and  vour  friends,  your  country,  and  your  f.^niiiy,  that  vou  would 
"  no  longer  abandon  yourl'clf  to  a  dil'confoiate  pallion  ;  but  that  you  would, 
"  at  length,  awaken  your  piety,  give  \vay  to  your  prudence,  or,  at  Italt,  rouft; 
"  the  invincible  Ipirit  of  tlue  Percy's,  tliat  never  yet  llirunk  at  any  diiadtr-"- 

f  "  Let  there  be  nothin:;  rad;  or  abfurd  in  the  cnntlurion  of  tlie  fentcnee, 
"  on  which  the  mind  paults  and  refli.  This  is  the  mofl  material  part  of  the 
"  ftru''>ure  of  difcourfe.  Here  every  hearer  expccis  to  be  gratilied  j  here  his 
''  anpiaufs  brcalcs  fottli." 


i84  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.      Lect.  XIIL 

words,  are  as  ungracious  to  the  ear,  at  the  conclufion,  as  I  for- 
merly ihcwed  they  were  inconfiftent  with  flrength  of  expreflion. 
It  is  more  than  probable,  that  the  fenfe  and  the  found  have 
here  a  mutual  influence  on  each  other.  That  which  hurts  the 
ear,  fcems  to  mar  the  flrength  of  the  meaning  ;  and  that  which 
really  degrades  the  fenfe,  in  confequence  of  this  primary  efFcdl, 
appears  alfo  to  have  a  bad  found.  How  difagrceable  is  the 
following  fentence  of  an  Author,  fpeaking  of  the  Trinity  f 
**  It  is  a  myftsry  which  we  firmly  b;;lieve  the  triith  of,  and 
** humbly  adore  the  depth  of."  And  how  eafily  could  it  have 
been  mended  by  this  tranfpofition!  "It  is  a  myftery,  the  truth 
•'  of  which  we  firmly  believe,  and  the  depth  of  which  we  hum- 
**bly  adore."  In  general  it  feems  to  hold,  that  a  mufical  clofc, 
in  our  language,  requires  either  the  lafh  fyllablc,  or  the  penult, 
that  is,  the  la  ft  but  one,  to  be  a  long  fyllable.  Words  which 
confift  moftly  of  (hort  fyllables,  as,  contrary^ particulary  rctrofpecly 
feldom  conclude  a  Sentence  harmonioufly,  unlefs  a  run  of  long 
fyllables,  before,  has  rendered  them  agreeable  to  the  ear. 

It  is  necefTary,  ho'wcver,  to  obferve,  tliat  Sentences  fo  con- 
ftru6t:ed  as  to  make  the  found  always  fwell  and  grow  towards 
the  end,  and  to  reft  either  on  a  long  or-a  penult  long  fyllable, 
give  a  difcourfe  the  tone  of  declamation.  [  The  ear  foou  becomes 
acquainted  with  the  melody,  and  is  apt  to  be  cloyed  with  it. 
If  we  would  keep  up  the  attention  of  the  reader  or  hearer,  if 
"we  would  preferve  vivacity  and  ftrength  in  our  compofition,  we 
niuft  be  very  attentive  to  vary  our  meafures.  This  regards  the 
diftribution  of  the  members,  as  well  as  the  cadence  of  the  pe- 
riod. Sentences  conftrudted  in  a  fimilar  manner,  with  the 
paufes  falHng  at  equal  intervals,  fliould  never  follow  another. 
Short  Sentences  fliould  be  intermixed  with  long  and  fwelling 
ones,  to  render  difcourfe  fprightly,  as  well  as  magnificent. 
Even  difcords,  properly  introduced,  abrupt  founds,  departures 
from  regular  cadence,  have  fometimes  a  good  cffedl.  Monot- 
ony is  the  great  fault  into  which  writers  are  apt  to  fall,  who 
are  fond  of  harmonious  arrangement :  and  to  have  only  one 
tune,  or  meafure,  is  not  much  better  than  having  none  at  all. 
A  very  vulgar  ear  will  enable  a  writer  to  catch  fome  one  melody, 
and  to  form  the  run  of  his  Sentences  according  to  it ;  which 
foon  proves  difgufting.  But  a  juft  and  correal  ear  is  requifite 
for  varying  and  divcrfifying  the  melody ;  and  hence  we  fo  fel- 
dom 


Lect.  Xtrr.      KARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  185 

dom  meet   with  authors,  who  are  remarkably  happy  In  this 
refpeft. 

Tliough  attention  to  the  mufic  of  Sentences  muft  not  he 
negletSlcd,  yet  it  mull  alio  be  kept  within  proper  bounds  :  for 
all  appearances  of  an  author's  affecling  Harmony,  are  difag^e- 
3ble ;  efpecially  when  the  love  of  it  betrays  him  fo  far,  as  to 
facrifice,  in  any  inftance,  perfpicuity,  precifion,  or  ftrength  of 
fentimcnt,  to  found.  All  unmeaning  words,  introduced  mere- 
ly to  round  the  period,  or  fill  up  the  melody,  complcmentn  nit- 
tnerorum^  as  Cicero  calls  them,  are  great  blcmilhes  in  writing. 
They  are  childifh  and  puerile  ornaments,  by  which  a  Sentence 
always  lofes  more  in  point  of  weight,  than  it  can  gain  by  fuch 
additions  to  the  beauty  of  its  found.  Scnfe  has  its  own  Har- 
mony, as  well  as  found  s  and,  where  the  fenfe  of  a  period  is 
exprcffiid  with  clearnefs,  force,  and  dignity,  it  will  feldom  hap- 
pen but  the  words  will  flrike  the  ear  agreeably  ;  at  leall,  a  very 
moderate  attention  is  all  that  is  requifite  for  making  the  ca- 
dence of  fuch  a  period  pleafing :  and  the  efFeft  of  greater  at* 
tcntion  is  often  no  other,  than  to  render  compofition  languid 
and  enervated.  After  all  the  labour  which  Q^intilian  bellows 
on  regulating  the  mcafures  of  profe,  he  comes  at  laft,  with  his 
ufual  good  fenfe,  to  this  conclufion :  "  In  univerfum,  fi  fit  ne- 
*'  cefle,  duram  potius  itque  afperam  compofitionem  malim  efle> 
**  quam  efFcminatam  ac  enervem,  qualis  apud  multos.  Ideoque, 
*'  vindla  quecdam  de  induHria  funt  folvenda,  ne  laborata  vid- 
**  eantur  ;  ncque  ullum  idoneum  aut  aptum  verbum  praeter* 
''  mittamus,  gratia  Icnitatis."*     (Lib.  ix.  c.  4.) 

Cicero,  as  I  before  obferved,  is  one  of  the  moft  remarkable 
patterns  of  a  harmonious  ftyle.  His  love  of  it,  however,  is  too 
vifible  ;  and  the  pomp  of  his  numbers  fometimes  detrafts  from 
his  ftrcngth.  That  noted  clofe  of  his  ejje  vldeatWy  which,  in 
tlic  Oration  Pro  Lege  Manilla,  occurs  eleven  times,  expofed 
him  to  cenfare  among  his  cotemporaries.  We  muft  obferve,  how- 
ever, in  defence  of  this  great  orator,  that  there  is  a  remarkable 
union  in  his  flyle,  of  Harmony  with  cafe,  which  is  always  a 
A  A  great 

•  "  Upon  the  whole,  I  would  rather  choofe,  that  compofition  fliould  api)ear 
"rouqh  and  hardi,  if  that  be  necefTHry,  than  that  it  fliould  be  enervated  and 
*' effiminate,  fuch  as  we  find  the  flyl'.'  of  too  niany.  Some  fentcnces,  tlicrc- 
**  fore,  whicli  we  have  ftudioully  formed  into  melody,  fliould  be  thrown  loofc, 
"that  thty  may  not  feem  too  much  lal-.oured  :  nor  ought  we  ever  tu  omit  aoj 
•'  proper  or  cxprcflivc  word,  for  the  lake  of  fmogtbing  a  period." 


t86  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.      Lect.  XIII. 

great  beauty  •,  and  if  his  Harmony  be  fometimes  thought  ftudi- 
ed,  that  lludy  appears  to  have  cod  him  little  trouble. 

Among  our  Englilli  clalTics,  not  many  are  diftinguirtied  for 
mufical  arrangement.  Milton,  in  fome  of  his  profe  works, 
has  very  finely  turned  periods  -,  but  the  writers  of  his  age  in- 
dulged a  liberty  of  inverfion,  which  now  would  be  reckoned 
contrary  to  purity  of  ftyle  :  and  though  this  allowed  their  Sen- 
tences to  be  more  (lately  and  fonorous,  yet  it  gave  them  too 
much  of  a  Latinifed  confl:ru6lion  and  order.  Of  later  writers, 
Shaftefbury  is,  upon  the  whole,  the  moft  correft  in  his  num- 
bers. As  his  ear  was  delicate,  he  has  attended  to  mufic  in  all 
his  Sentences  -,  and  he  is  peculiarly  happy  in  this  refpcdl,  that 
he  has  avoided  the  monotony  into  which  writers,  who  ftudy 
the  grace  of  found,  are  very  apt  to  fall  ;  having  diverfified  his 
periods  with  great  variety.  Mr.  Addifon  has  alfo  much  Har- 
mony in  his  ftyle  ;  more  eafy  and  fmooth,  but  lefs  varied,  than 
Lord  Shaftefbury.  Sir  William  Temple  is,  in  general,  very 
flowing  and  agreeable.  Archbifhop  Tillotfon,  is  too  often 
carelefs  and  languid  ;  and  is  much  outdone  by  Bifliop  Atter- 
bury  in  the  mufic  of  his  periods.  Dean  Swift  defpifed  mufical 
arrangement  altogether. 

Hitherto  I  have  difcourfed  of  agreeable  found,  or  modula- 
tion, in  general.  It  yet  remains  to  treat  of  a  higher  beauty 
of  this  kind  ;  the  found  adapted  to  the  fenfe.  The  former  was 
no  more  than  a  fimple  accompaniment,  to  pleafe  the  ear  ;  the 
latter  fuppofes  a  peculiar  exprellion  given  to  the  mufic.  We 
may  remark  two  degrees  of  it ;  Firft,  the  current  of  found, 
adapted  to  the  tenor  of  a  difcourfe ;  next,  a  particular  refem- 
blance  efFetled  between  fome  objedl,  and  the  founds  that  are 
employed  in  defcribing  it.    • 

Firft,  I  fay,  the  current  of  found  maybe  adapted  to  the  tenor 
of  a  difcourfe.  Sounds  have,  in  many  refpc6ls,  a  correfpond- 
ence  with  our  ideas;  partly  natural,  partly  the  efFedl  of  artifi- 
cial affociations.  Hence  it  happens,  that  any  one  modulation 
of  found  continued,  imprints  on  our  ftyle  a  certain  charaflcr 
and  expreflion.  Sentences  conftrucled  with  the  Ciceronian 
fulnefs  and  fwell,  produce  the  imprcflion  of  what  is  important, 
magnificent,  fedate  ;  for  this  is  the  natural  tone  •which  fuch  a 
courfe  of  fentiment  aflumes.  But  they  fuit  no  violent  paffion, 
no  eager  reafoning,  no  familiar  addrefs.     Thefe  always  require 

meafurcs 


Lect.XIII.    harmony  of  sentences.  18; 

meafures  briflcer,  eafier,  and  often  more  abrupt.  And,  there- 
fore, to  fwell,  or  to  let  down  the  periods,  as  the  fubjc£l  de- 
mands, is  a  very  important  rule  in  oratory.  No  one  tenoj 
whatever,  fuppofing  it  to  produce  no  bad  effedl  from  fatiety, 
will  anfvver  to  all  different  compofitions ;  nor  even  to  all  the 
parts  of  the  fame  compofition.  It  were  as  abfurd  to  write  a 
panegyric,  and  an  inve£live,  in  a  ftyle  of  the  fame  cadence,  as 
to  fet  the  words  of  a  tender  love-fong  to  the  air  of  a  warlike 
march. 

Obferve  how  finely  the  following  Sentence  of  Cicero  is 
adapted,  to  reprefent  the  tranquillity  and  eafe'of  a  fatisfied  ftate. 
*'  Etfi  homini  nihil  eft  magis  optandum  quam  profpera,  lequabi- 
*'  lis,  perpetuaque  fortuna,  fecundo  vitse  fine  ulla  offenfione 
**  curfu  J  tamen,  fi  mihi  tranquilla  ct  placata  omnia  fuiflent, 
**  iucredibili  quadam  et  penc  divina,  qua  nunc  veftro  beneficio 
*'  fruor,  laetitias  voluptate  caruiflem."  *  Nothing  was  ever  more 
perfect  in  its  kind :  it  paints,  if  we  may  fo  fpeak,  to  the  ear. 
But,  v/ho  would  not  have  laughed,  if  Cicero  had  employed  fuch 
periods,  or  fuch  a  cadence  as  this,  in  inveighing  againft  Mark 
Antony,  or  Catiline  .''  What  is  requifite,  therefore,  is,  that  we 
previoufly  fix,  in  our  mind,  a  jufl  idea  of  the  general  tone  of 
found  which  fuits  our  fubjc£l ;  that  is,  which  the  fentiments 
we  are  to  exprefs,  mofl  naturally  afl'ume,  and  in  which  they 
moft  commonly  vent  themfelves  j  whether  round  and  fmooth, 
or  (lately  and  folcmn,  or  brilk  and  quick,  or  interrupted  and  ab- 
rupt. This  general  i^ea  mull  diredl  tlie  modulation  of  our  pe- 
riods ;  to  fpeak  in  the  flyleof  mufic,  muft  give  us  the  key  note, 
mult  form  the  ground  of  the  melody;  varied  and  diverfifiedin 
parts,  according  as  either  our  fentiments  are  dix'erfified,  or  as 
is  requifite  for  producing  a  fuitable  variety  to  gratify  the  ear. 

It  may  be  proper  to  remark,  that  our  tranflatorsof  the  Bible 
have  often  been  happy  in  fuiting  their  numbers  to  the  fubjedl.  .  f 
Grave,  folcmn,  and  majcftic  fubjecSVs  undoubtedly  require  fuch 
an  arrangement  of  words  as  runs  much  on  long  fyllables  ;  and, 
particularly,  they  require  the  clofe  to  reft  upon  fuch.  The  very 
firft  vcrfes  of  the  Bible,  are  remarkable  for  this  melody;  *'  In 
*'  the  beginning,  God  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth ;  and 
**  tlie  earth  was  without  form,  and  void ;  and  darknefs  waa 


*  Orat.  ad  Qi^irites,  pod  Rcditunu  . 


'*  upoa 


l88  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.    Lect.  XTII. 

**  upon  the  face  of  the  deep  ;  and  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon 
**  the  fee  of  the  vi'aters."  Several  other  pafTages,  particularly 
fome  of  the  Pfalms,  afford  ftriking  examples  of  this  fort  of  grave, 
melodious  con{tru£lion.  Any  compofition  that  rifes  coufider- 
ably  above  the  ordinary  tone  of  profe,  fuch  as  monumental  in- 
fcriptions,  and  panegyrical  characters,  naturally  runs  into  num- 
bers of  this  kind. 

But,  in  the  next  place,  befides  the  general  correfpondence  of 
the  current  of  found  vith  th.e  current  of  thought,  there  may  be 
a  more  particular  cxpreflion  attempted,  of  certain  objedls,  by 
means  of  refembling  founds.  I  This  cm  be,  fometimes,  accom- 
pliflied  in  profe  compohtion  ;  but  there  only  in  a  more  faint 
degree  ;  nor  is  k  fo  much  expected  there.  In  poetry,  cliiefly* 
it  is  looked  for ;  where  attention  to  found  is  more  demanded, 
and  where  the  inverfions  and  liberties  of  poetical  fiyle  give  us 
a  greater  command  of  found  ;  affifled,  too,  by  the  verfification, 
and  that  cantus  ohfciiricr.,  to  M'hi'ch  we  are  naturally  led  in  read-* 
ing  poetry.     This  requires  a  little  more  illuftration. 

The  founds  of  words  may  be  employed  for  reprefenting, 
chiefly,  three  clafles  of  objects  \  firlt,  other  founds  j  fecondly, 
motion  ;   and,  thirdly,  the  emotions  and  paflions  of  the  mind. 

Firffc,  I  fay,  by  a  proper  choice  of  words,  we  may  produce  a 
refemblance  of  other  founds  which  m'C  mean  to  dL-fcribe,  fuch 
as,  the  nolfe  of  waters,  the  roaring  of  vslnds,  or  the  murmuring 
of  ftreams.  '  This  is  the  fmipleft  inflanee  of  this  fort  of  beauty. 
For  the  medium  through  which  we  Imftate  here,  Is  a  natural 
one ;  founds  reprefented  by  other  founds  ;  and  between  ideas 
of  the  fame  fenfe,  it  is  eafy  to  form  a  connexion.  No  very 
great  art  is  required  in  a  poet,  when  he  is  defcribing  fweet  and 
foft  founds,  to  make  ufe  of  fuch  M-ords  as  have  moit  liquids 
and  vowels,  and  glide  the  fofteft ;  or,  when  he  is  defcribing 
harfli  founds,  to  throw  together  a  number  of  harlh  fyllables 
■which  are  of  difficult  pronunciation.  Here  the  common  flruc- 
ture  of  Language  affifts  him  ;  for  it  will  be  found,  that  ui  moft 
Languages,  the  names  of  many  particular  founds  are  fo  formed, 
as  to  carry  fome  affinity  to  the  found  Mhich  they  fignify;  as 
with  us,  the  ivhijllitig  of  winds,  the  buz  and  hum  of  infedls,  the 
hifs  of  ferpents,  the  craJJj  of  falling  timber ;  and  many  other  Jn- 
flances,  where  the  word  has  been  plainly  ifriinicd  urou  the  found 

it 


Lect.XIII.    harmony  of  sentences.  189 

it  reprefents.  I  lliall  produce  a  remarkable  example  of  this 
beauty  from  Milton,  taken  from  two  palTages  in  Paradife  Loll:, 
defcribing  tbe  foujid  made,  in  the  one,  by  the  opening  of  the 
gates  of  hell ;  in  the  other,  by  the  opening  of  thofe  of  heaven. 
The  contrail  between  the  two,  difplays,  to  great  advantage,  the 
poet's  art.     The  firll  is  the  opening  of  hell's  gates  : 


-On  a  fudden,  open  fly, 


With  impetuous  recoil,  and  jarring  found. 

Til'  infernal  doors  ;  and  on  their  hinges  grate 

Harfh  thunder. B.  L 

Obferve,  now,  the  fmoothnefs  of  the  other: 


-Heaven  opened  wide 


Her  ever-during  gates,  harmonious  found, 

On  golden  hinges  turning. ^  B.  II. 

The  following  beautiful  paflage  from  Taflb's  Gierufalemme, 
has  been  often  admired  on  account  of  the  imitation  efFcdlcJ  by 
found  of  the  thing  reprefented  : 

Chiama  gli  habitator  de  I'ombre  eterne 

II  rauco  iiion  de  la  Tartarea  tromba: 

Treman  le  fpaciofe  atre  caverne, 

Et  I'aer  cieco  a  que!  rumor  rimbomba ; 

ISTe  ftridcndo  coli  de  le  fuperne 

Kegioni  dele  cielo,  il  folgor  pioniba; 

Ke  li  fcofla  giamniai  la  terra, 

Quand  i  vapoii  in  fen  gravida  ferra.  Ca  nt.  IV.  Stanz.  4. 

The  fecond  clafs  of  pbje£l:s,  which  the  found  of  words  is  of- 
ten employed  to  imitate,  is,  Motion  ;  as  it  is  fwift  or  (low,  vio- 
lent or  gentle,  equable  or  interrupted,  eafy  or  accompanied 
with  effort.  /  Though  there  be  no  natural  afiinity  between 
found,  of  any  kind,  and  motion,  yet,  in  the  imagination,  there 
is  a  ftrong  one  ;  as  appears  from  the  connexion  between  mu- 
fic  and  dancing.  And,  therefore,  here  it  is  in  the  poet's  pow- 
er to  give  us  a  lively  idea,  of  the  kind  of  motion  he  would  de- 
fcribe,  by  means  of  founds  which  correfpond,  in  our  imagina- 
tion with  that  motion.  Long  fyllables  naturally  give  the  im- 
prcflion  of  flow  motion  -,  as  in  this  line  of  Virgil : 

Olli  inter  fefe  magna  vi  brachia  tollunt. 

A   fucceffipn  pf  flaort    fyllables  prefcnts  quick  motion  to  the 
miudj  as, 

Qiiadrupedante  putrcm  fonitu  quatit  ungula  campum. 

^  Both 


jpa  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.    Lect.XIII- 

Both  Homer  and  Virgil  are  great  mafters  of  this  beauty ;  and 
their  works  abound  with  inftances  of  it ;  mofl:  of  them,  indeed, 
fo  often  quoted,  and  fo  ^cll  known,  that  it  is  necdlefs  to  pro- 
duce them.  I  fliall  give  one  inftance,  in  Englifli,  which  fcems 
happy.  It  is  the  defcription  of  a  fudden  calm  on  the  feas,  iii  a 
Poem,  entitled.  The  Fleece. 


-With  cafy  courfe 


The  veflcls  glide  ;  iinlds  tlieir  fpced  be  flopped 
By  dead  calms,  that  oft  lie  on  theie  I'mooth  ieas 
When  every  zephyr  (lecps  ;  then  the  flirouds  drop  ; 
The  downy  feather,  on  the  cordage  hung, 
Woves  not ;  the  flat  fca  fhincs  like  yellow  gold 
FusM  in  the  fire,  or  like  the  marble  fioor 
Of  lorae  old  temple  wide. 

The  third  fet  of  obje£ls  which  I  mentioned  the  founds  of 
words  are  capable  of  reprefenting,  confifls  of  the  paffions  and 
emotions  of  the  mind.  Sound  may,  at  firfl:  view,  appear  for- 
eign to  thefe  ',  but,  that  here  alfo,  there  is  fome  fort  of 
connexion,  is  fufficiently  proved  by  the  power  which  mufie 
has  to  awaken,  or  to  afiifl  certain  paflions,  and,  according  as 
its  drain  is  varied,  to  introduce  one  train  of  ideas,  rather  than 
another.  This,  indeed,  logically  fpeaking,  cannot  be  called  a 
refemblance  between  the  fenfe  and  the  found,  feeing  long  or 
fhort  fyllables  have  no  natural  refemblance  to  any  thought  or 
pafTion.  But  if  the  arrangement  of  fyllables,  by  their  found 
alone,  recal  one  fet  of  ideas  more  readily  than  anotlicr,  and  dif- 
pofe  the  mind  for  entering  into  that  affe^lion  which  the  poetr 
means  toraife,  fuch  arrangement  m.ay,  juftly  enough,  be  faid  to 
refemble  the  fenfe,  or  be  firnilar  and  correfpondent  to  it.  I 
admit,  that,  in  many  inftances,  which  are  fuppofed  to  difplay 
tliis  beauty  of  accommodation  of  found  to  the  fenfe,  there  is 
much  room  for  imagination  to  work  ;  and,  according  as  a 
reader  is  ftruck  by  a  paflage,  he  will  often  fancy  a  refemblance 
between  the  found  and  the  fenfe,  which  others  cannot  difcov- 
er.  He  modulates  the  numbers  to  his  own  difpofition  of  mind  j 
and,  in  effedl,  makes  the  mufic  which  he  imagines  himfelf  to 
hear.  Ilowever,  that  there  are  real  inftances  of  this  kind,  and 
that  poetry  is  capable  of  fome  fuch  expreffion,  cannot  be  doubt- 
ed. Dryden's  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  affords  a  very  beau- 
tiful exemplification  of  it,  in   the  Englifli  Largupge.     With« 

cut 


Lect.XIII.    harmony  of  sentences.  J91 

out  much  Rudy  or  refle£i:Ion,  a  poet  defcribing  pleafure,  joy, 
and  agreeable  obje£ls,  from  the  feeling  of  his  fubjedl,  naturally 
runs  into  fmooth,  liquid,  and  flowing  numbers. 


-Narnq\ie  ipfa  decorarn 


Or, 


C;efiriem  nato  genitrix,  Juiiicnque  juventa* 
Purpureum,  ct  lactos oculis  afllarat  iiouoies. 


Dcvenere  locos  Igctos  &  amasna  vireta 
Fortunatoruin,  nemorum,  fedefque  beatas  ; 
Largior  hie  campos  itther,  &  livniint;  veftit 
Purpereo,  foiernque  fuura,  fua  fideia  norunt. 


JEn.t 


Ms.  VI. 

Bride  and  lively  fenfations,  exact  quicker  and  more  animated 
numbers. 

■  Tuvenum  manus  emicat  ardens 


Littus  in  Iklperium.  JEu.  VIL 

Melancholy  and  gloomy  fubje£ls,  naturally  exprefs  themfelves 
in  flow  meafures,  and  long  words  : 

In  thofe  deep  folitiides  and  awful  cells. 
Where  heavenly  ptn(ive  contemplation  dwells. 

Et  caligantem  nigra  formidine  lucum. 

I  have  now  given  fufficicnt  openings  into  this  fubje6t :  a, 
moderate  acquaintance  with  the  good  poets,  either  ancient  or 
modern,  will  fuggeft  many  inllances  of  the  fame  kind.  And 
with  this,  I  finilh  the  difcuflion  of  the  iStruiSlurS  of  Sentences  , 
having  fully  confulered  them  under  all  the  heads  I  mentioned  ; 
ci"  Perfpicuity,  Unity,  Strength,  and  Mufical  Arraugemcnt. 


LECTURE 


iiu  .[■■iiMj    in'.M  iiMii  III  III  ii-L_.i^Lxjm-ii -iMMi  !!■     I    HI  1 1 II,     n   Mu  I '  J  I  1  iim 


LECTURE         XIV. 


ORIGIN   AND  NATURE  OF  FIGURATIVE  LAK* 

GUAGE. 

JlIaVIKG  now  finlfhed  what  related  to  the  con- 
ftnictlon  of  fentences,  I  proceed  to  other  rules  concerning 
Style.  My  general  divlfioli  of  the  qualities  of  Style,  was  into 
Perfpicuity  and  Ornament.  Pcrfpicuity,  both  In  fingle  words 
and  in  fentences,  I  have  cdlifidered.  Ornament,  as  far  as  it 
arlfes  from  a  graceful,  ftrong,  or  melodious  conftru£lion  of 
^-ords,  has  alfo  been  treated  of.  Another,  and  a  great  branch 
of  the  ornament  of  Style,  is.  Figurative  Language  ;  which  i$ 
now  to  be  the  fubjedl  of  our  confideration,  and  will  require  a 
full  difouffioni 

Our  firfl  inquiry  mufl:  be,  What  is  meant  by  Figures  of 
Speech  ?* 

In  general,  they  always  imply  fome  departure  from  fimpHcity 
of  expreflion  ;  the  idea  which  we  intend  to  convey,  not  only- 
enunciated  toothers,  but  enunciated,  in  a  particular  manner, and 
with  fome  circ'um  fiance,  added,  which  is  defigned  to  render  the 
imprefiion  more  {trong  and  vivid.  When  I  fay,  for  Inftance^ 
*'  That  a  good  man  enjoys  comfort  In  the  midit  of  adverfity  ;'* 
I  jufl:  exprefs  my  thought  In  the  fimplefl  manner  podlble.  But 
when  I  fay,  **  To  the  upright  there  arifeth  light  in  darknefs  ;'* 
the  fame  fentlment  is  exprefled  in  a  Figurative  Style  ;  a  new  clr- 
cumftance  is  introduced ;  light  Is  put  in  the  place  of  comfort, 
and  darknefs  is  ufed  to  fugged  the  idea  of  adverfity.  |  In  the 

fiime 

*  On  the  fiibjeA  of  Figures  of  Speech,  all  the  writers  who  treat  of  rhetoric 
or  compofition,  have  infifled  largclv.  To  make  references,  therefore,  on  this 
fubjeCl,  were  tndlcfs.  Oa  the  foundations  of  Figurative  I>anguage,  in  general, 
one  of  the  mod:  fenfihle,  and  inftruc5live  writers  appears  to  me,  to  be  M.  Mar- 
fais,  in  his  Traite  des  Tropes  pour  fovtr  (T  IiitrodiiSilon  a  la  Rhctnrique,  l^  a  let- 
JLo^iqur.  For  obfervations  on  particular  Figures,  the  EU-rncnts  of  Criticifm  may 
be  conftilted,  where  the  fubjeiit  is  fully  handled,  and  iliuflrated  by  a  great  va- 
riety of  examples. 


Lect.  XIV.     FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  193 

fame  manner,  to  fay,  *'  It  is  ImpoiTihle,  by  any  fearcli  we  caa 
*'  make,  to  explore  the  divine  N.iture  fully,"  is  to  make  a  fimple 
proportion.  But  when  we  fay,  "  Canit  thou,  by  fearchin^, 
*'  find  out  God  ?  Canll  thou  find  out  the  Almighty  to  pevfec- 
*'  tion  ?  ft  is  high  as  heaven,  what  canfl:  thou  do  ?  deeper 
*'  than  hell,  what  canfl  thou  know  ?"  This  introduces  a  Fig- 
ure into  Style  •,  the  propofition  being  not  only  exprclTcd,  but 
admiration  and  aftonidiment  being  expreflcd  together  with  it. 

But,  though  Figures  imply  a  deviation  from  what  may  be 
reckoned  the  moft  fimple  form  of  fpcech,  we  are  not  thence 
to  conclude,  that  they  imply  any  thing  uncommon,  or  unnat- 
ural. This  is  fo  far  from  being  the  cafe,  that,  on  very  many 
occafions,  they  are  both  the  moft  natural,  and  the  moft  com- 
mon method  of  uttering  our  fentiments.  '  It  is  impoflible  to 
compofe  any  difcourfe  witliout  ufing  them  often  j  nay,  there 
are  few  fentences  of  any  length,  in  which  fome  cxpreflion  or 
other,  that  may  be  termed  a  Figure,  does  not  occur.  From 
what  caufes  this  happens,  fhall  be  afterwards  explained.  The 
{.\c\y  in  the  mean  time,  fiiows,  that  they  are  to  be  accounted 
part  of  that  lisnguage  v/hich  nature  didl:ates  to  men.  They 
are  not  the  inyention  of  the  fchools,  nor  the  mere  produdl  of 
ftudy  :  on  the  contrary,  the  moft  illiterate  fpeak  in  Figures,  as 
often  as  the  moft  learned.  Whenever  the  imaginations  of  the 
vulgar  are  much  awakened,  or  their  paflions  inflamed  againfl; 
one  another,  they  will  pour  forth  a  torrent  of  Figurative  Lan- 
guage, as  forcible  as  could  be  employed  by  the  moft  artificial 
declaimer. 

What  then  is  it,  which  has  drawn  the  attention  of  critics 
and  rhetoricians  fo  much  to  thefe  forms  of  Speech  .■'  It  is  this  : 
They  remarked,  that  in  them  confifts  much  of  the  beauty  and 
the  force  of  Language  •,  and  found  them  always  to  bear  fome  char- 
acters, or  diftinguifljing  marks,  by  the  help  of  wliicii  they 
could  reduce  them  under  feparatc  clafles  and  heads.  To  this, 
perhaps,  they  owe  their  name  of  Figures.  As  the  Figure,  or 
fiiape  of  one  body,  diftinguifiies  it  from  anothei*,  fo  thefe  forms 
of  Speech  have,  each  of  them,  a  caft  or  turn  peculiar  to  itfelf, 
which  both  diftinguiflies  it  from  the  reft,  and  diftinguiflies  it 
from  fimple  expreffion.  Simple  exprefllon  juft  makes  our  idea 
known  to  others  j   but  Figurative  Language,  over  and  above,' 

B  a  beftows 


194  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF       Lect.  XIV. 

beftows  a  particular  drefs  upon  that  idea  -,  a  drefs.  uhlcU  both 
makes  it  be  remarked,  and  adorns  it.  Hence,  this  fort  of  Lan- 
guage became  early  a  capita!  objedl  of  attention  to  thofe  who 
fludied  tlie  powers  of  Speech. 

Fij^ures,  in  jrcneral,  m,iy  be  defcrlbed  to  be  tliat  Languajje, 
which  is  prompted  either  by  the  imagination,  or  by  the  paf- 
fions.  The  jailncfs  of  tliis  dcfcriprion  will  appear,  from  the 
move  particular  account  I  am  afterwards  to  give  of  them.  Rhet- 
oricians commonly  divide  them  into  two  great  clafies  ;  Figures 
qf  "Words,  and  Fifrures  of  Thous^ht.  The  former.  Figures  of 
Words,  are  commonly  called  Tropes,  and  confift  in  a  word's 
being  employed  to  fighify  fomething  that  is  diiTerent  from  its 
original  arfd  primitive  meaning ;  fo  that  if  you  alter  the  word, 
you  deilroy  tlie  Figure.  Thus,  in  the  inftance  I  gave  before  ; 
*'  Light  arifeth  to  the  upright  in  darknefs."  The  Trope  confifts 
in  "  light  and  darknefs"  being  not  meant  literally,  but  fubflitut- 
ed  for  comfort  ^nd  adverfity,  on  account  of  fome  i-cfemblance 
or  analogy  which  they  are  fuppofed  to  bear  to  thefe  conditions 
of  life.  The  other  clafs,  termed  Figures  of  Thought,  fuppofes 
the  words  to  be  ufed  in  t'ucir  proper  and  literal  meaning,  and 
the  Figure  to  connft  in  the  turn  of  the  Thought  ;  as  is  the  cafe 
ill  exclamations,  interrogations,  apodrophes,  and  comparlfons ; 
where,  though  you  vary  tlie  words  tliat  are  ufcd,  or  tranJlate 
them  from  one  Language  into  another,  you  may,  neverthe- 
lefs,  ilill  preferve  the  fame  Figure  in  the  Thought.  This  dif- 
tinclion,  however,  is  of  no  great  ufe  ;  as  nothing  can  be  built 
upon  it  in  praiSlice ;  neither  is  it  always  very  clear.  It  is  of 
Httle  importance,  whether  we  give  to  fome  particular  mode  of 
expre.Tjon  the  name  of  a  Trope,  or  of  a  Figure ;  provided  wc 
remember,  that  Figurative  Language  always  imports  fome  col- 
ouring of  die  imagination,  or  fome  emotion  of  paihon,  exprelled 
in  our  Style  :  and,  perhaps,  Figures  of  imagination,  and  Figures 
of  pafTion.,  might  be  a  more  ufeful  dlflribution  of  the  fubjecl* 
But  witli'M-.t  infiftind  on  any  artificial  diviGons,  it  will  be  the 
mo'-e  ufeuil,  that  I  inquire  into  the  Origin  and  the  Nature  of 
Figures.  Only,  before  proceeding  to  this,  tliere  are  two  gener- 
al obfervntions  which  it  may  be  proper  to  premTe. 

Tiic  iirn;  Is,  concerning  the  ufe  of  rules  with  rcfpefl  to  Fig- 
l^rative  Language.     I  admit,  that  perfons  may  both  fpeak  and 

write 


Lect.  XIV.     FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  195 

write  with  propriety,  who  know  not  the  names  or  any  of  the  . 
Figures  of  Speech,  nor  ever  ftudied  any  rules  relating  to  them.  / 
Nature,  as  was  before  obferved,  dictates  the  ufe  of  Figures  •, 
and,  like  Monf.  Jourdain,  in  Molicre,  who  had  fpoken  for  for- 
ty years  in  profe,  without  ever  knowing  it,  many  a  one  ufes 
metaphorical  expreflions  to  good  purpofe,  without  any  idea  of 
what  a  metaphor  is.  It  will  not,  however,  follow  thence,  that 
rules  are  of  no  fervice.  All  fcience  arifes  from  obfervations  on 
praflice.  Pra£lice  has  always  gone  before  method  and  rule; 
but  method  and  rule  have  afterwards  improved  and  perfedled 
practice,  in  every  art.  We  every  day,  meet  with  perfons  who 
fing  agreeably,  without  knowing  one  note  of  the  gamut.  Yet,  it 
has  been  found  of  importance  to  reduce  thefe  notes  to  a  fcale, 
and  to  form  an  art  of  mufic  ;  and  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  pre- 
tend, thiit  the  art  is  of  no  advantage,  becaufe  the  pra£l:ice  is 
founded  in  nature.  Propriety  and  beauty  of  Speech,  ai^e  cer- 
tainly as  improveable  as  the  ear  or  the  voice  ;  and  to  know  the^ 
principles  of  this  beauty,  or  the  rcafons  which  lender  one  Fig- 
ure, or  one  manner  of  Speech  preferable  to  another,  cannot  fail 
to  aflifl:  and  direcH:  a  proper  choice. 

But  I  muft  obferve,  in  the  next  place,  that  although  this  part 
of  llyle  mei-its  attention,  and  be  a  very  proper  object  of  fcience 
and  rule  ;  although  much  of  the  beauty  of  compofition  depends 
on  Figurative  Language  ;  yet  we  mud  beware  of  imagining 
that  it  depends  folely,  or  even  chiefly,  upon  fuch  Language. 
It  is  not  fo.  (  The  great  place  which  the  dodlrine  of  Tropes 
and  Figures  has  occupied  in  fyftems  of  rhetoric ;  the  over- 
anxious care  which  has  been  fliewn  in  giving  names  to  a  vaft  va- 
riety of  them,  and  in  ranging  them  under  different  clafTes,  has 
often  led  perfons  to  imagine,  that  if  their  compofition  was  well 
befpangled  with  a  number  of  thefe  ornaments  of  fpccch,  it  want- 
ed no  other  beauty ;  whence  has  arifen  much  ftiffncfs  and  af- 
fectation. For  it  is,  in  truth,  the  fentiment  or  pafTxon,  which  ' 
lies  under  tlie  figured  expreflion,  that  gives  it  any  merit  The 
Figure  is  only  the  drels  ;  the  fentiment  is  the  body  and  the  fub- 
ftance.  No  Figures  will  render  a  cold  or  an  empty  compofition 
interefting ;  whereas,  if  a  fentiment  be  fublime  or  pariietic,  it 
can  fupport  itfelf  perfeiftly  well,  without  any  borrowed  alfill- 
ance.     Hence  feveral  of  the  mofl;  alTeding  and  admired  paf- 

fa^s 


196  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF      Lect.  XIV. 

fages  of  the  befl  authors,  are  exprefTed  in  the  fimplefl  Language. 
The  follovvhig  fentiment  from  Virgil,  for  inflance,  niakes  its 
way  at  once  to  the  heart,  without  the  help  of  any  ligure  what- 
ever. He  is  defcribing  an  Argive,  who  falls  in  battle,  in  Italy, 
at  a  great  dillance  from  his  native  country : 

Sternitur,  infdix,  alieno  vulnere,  cci'lumquc 

Alpicit,  et  dukes  muiicns  rcniinilcitur  Aigos.*         ^n.  x.  781. 

A  fingle  flroke  of  this  kind,  drawn  as  by  the  very  pencil  of  na- 
ture, is  worth  a  thoufand  Figures.  In  the  fame  manner,  the 
fmiplc  Ityle  of  fcripture :  *'  He  fpoke,  and  it  was  doiic  ;  he 
*'  commanded,  and  it  flood  fail."  **  God  faid,  let  there  be 
**  light  1  and  there  was  light,"  imports  a  lofty  conception  to 
much  greater  advantage,  than  if  it  had  been  decorated  by  the 
mofl  pompous  metaphors.  The  faft  is,  that  the  ftrong  pathet- 
ic, and  the  pure  fublime,  not  only  have  little  dependence  on 
^Figures  of  fpeech,  but,  generally,  reje£l  them.  The  proper 
region  of  thefe  ornaments  is,  where  a  moderate  degree  of  ele- 
vation and  paffion  is  predominant  j  and  there  they  contribute 
to  the  embellifliment  of  difcourfe,  only,  when  there  is  a  bafis 

of 

•  "  Antliares  had  from  Arjros  travcird  far, 
"  Alcides'  friend,  and  brother  of  the  war  ; 
•'  Now  falling,  hv  anotlier's  wound,  his  eyes 
"  He  cafts  to  Heaven,  on  Argos  thinks,  and  dies/' 

"Tn  this  tranflation,  much  of  tlic  beauty  of  the  orijjinal  is  lofl.  "  On  Arj^os  thinks 
and  die*,"  is  bv  no  means  t(]iial  to  "  dulcts  nioricns  rcminilcitiir  Argos.'"  "  As 
"he  dies,  he  remembers  liis  helo\'ed  Argos."  It  is  iiultid  ohfervjihle,  that  in 
mofl  of  thofe  tender  and  pathetic  pa(rar;ts,  vvhieh  do  io  much  honour  to  Vir- 
eil,  that  yreat  pott  cxprtHes  himrdiwith  the  utmuU  llmplicity  ;  as 

Te,  dulcis  Conjux,  tc  folo  in  littorc  fecuni, 
Te  vtnientc  die,  te  dcccdeiitc  caiiebat.  Georg.  IV. 

And  fo  in  that  moving  prayer  of  Evander,  upon  h.is  parting  with  his  fon  Pal- 
las; 

At  vos,  O  Supcri !  et  Divum  tu  maxime  redlor 

Jupiter,  Arcadi  quafo  mifercfcite  rtfiis, 

lit  patrias  audite  prcccs.     Si  numina  vcflra 

Incolumem  Pallanta  milii,  fi  fata  rcfervant, 

Si  vifurus  eum  vivo,  et  vcnturus  in  unum, 

Vitam  oro  ;  patiar  cjuemvis  durare  labortm  ! 

Sin  aliqucm  infandum  calum,  Fortiina,  minari,";, 

Ivlunc,  O  nunc  liccat  cvudelcni  abrumperc  vitam  ? 

Diini  curx  anibigu.x,  dum  Ipcs  inccrta  futuri  ; 

Dum,  te  chart  Pucr  !  mea  lera  ct  iola  voluptai! 

Ampicxu  teneo;  gravior  at  nuncius  aures 

Vulneret I^^-  VIIT.  571, 


Lect.XIV.       figurative  LANGUAGE.  "197 

of  folid  thought  and  natural  fentiment ;  when  they  are  inferted 
in  their  proper  place  ;  and  when  they  rife,  of  themfclves,  from 
the  fubjedl,  without  being  fought  after. 

Having  prcmifed  thtfe  obfcrv<aion,s,  I  proceed  to  give  nn 
account  of  the  Origin  and  Nature  of  Figures  *,  principally  of 
fuch  as  have  their  dependence  on  Language  -,  including  that 
numerous  tribe,  which  the  rhetoricians  call  Tropes. 

At  the  lirft  rife  of  Language,  men  would  begin  with  giving 
names  to  the  different  obje(!.is  which  they  difcerned,  or  thought 
of.  This  nomenclature  would,  at  the  beginning,  be  very  nar- 
row. According  as  men's  ideas  multiplied,  and  their  acquaint- 
ance with  objecn;s  increafed,  their  ftock  of  names  and  words 
would  increafc  alfo.  But  to  the  infinite  variety  of  obje£ts  and 
ideas,  no  Language  is  adequate.  No  Language  is  fo  copious,- 
as  to  have  a  feparatc  word  for  every  fcparate  idea.  Men  nat- 
urally fought  to  abridge  this  labour  of  multiplying  words  in 
ivjimtum  ;  and,  in  order  to  lay  lefs  burden  on  their  memories,  # 
made  one  word,  which  they  had  already  appropriated  to  a 
certain  idea  or  objcdl,  fland  alio  for  fome  other  idea  or  objc£l ; 
between  which  and  the  primary  one,  they  found,  or  fancied, 
fome  relation.  Thus,  the  prepofition,  ///,  was  originally  in- 
vented to  exprefs  the  circumftance  of  place  :  "  The  man  was 
**  killed  /;/  the  wood."  In  progrefs  of  time,  words  were  wanted 
to  exprefs  men's  being  connedled  with  certain  conditions  of 
fortune,  or  certain  fituations  of  mind  ;  and  fome  rtfcniblance, 
or  analogy,  being  fancied  between  thcfc,  and  the  place  of 
bodies,  the  word,  /;/,  was  employed  to  exprefs  men's  being  fo 
circumflanced  •,  as,  one's  being  iii  health,  or  hi  ficknefs,  in 
profperity  or  /';/  adverfity,  in  joy  or  in  grief,  in  doubt,  or  in 
danger,  or  /;/  fafety.  Here  we  lee  this  prepofition,  /';;,  plainly 
afluming  a  tropical  fignification,  or  carried  ofl"  from  its  origin- 
al meaning,  to  fignify  fomething  elfe,  which  relates  to,  or  rc- 
fembles  it. 

Tropes  of  this  kind  abound  in  all  Languages,  and  are  plain- 
ly owing  to  the  want  of  proper  words.  The  operations  of  the 
mind  and  afl'e£lions,  in  particular,  are,  in  moft  Languages,  de- 
fcribcd  by  words  taken  from  fenlible  objedls.  The  veafon  is 
plain.  The  names  of  fenlible  objccls,  were,  in  all  Languages,  ,, 
the  words  moil  early  introduced  j  and  were,  by  degrees,  extend- 


J5«  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF      Lect.XIV. 

cd  to  thofe  mental  cb]e£!:s,  cf  which  men  had  more  obfcure  con- 
ceptions, and  to  which  they  found  it  more  diilicult  to  iifligndit- 
tin6l  names.  They  borrowed,  therefore,  the  name  cf  fomc 
fenfible  idea,  where  their  imagination,  found  fome  affinity. 
Thus,  we  fpeak  of,  a  piercing  judgment,  and  a  clear  head  ;  a 
foft  or  a  hard  heart ;  a  rough  or  a  fmooth  behaviour.  We  fay, 
infamed  by  anger,  nvarmid  by  love  ;  fwtlhd  with  pride,  melted 
into  grief;  and  thefe  are  almoft  the  only  figniucant  words 
vhich  we  have  for  fuch  ideas. 

Tut,  although  the  barrennefs  of  Language,  and  the  want  of 
words,  be  doubtlcfs  one  caufe  of  the  invention  of  Tropes  ;  yet 
it  is  not  the  only,  nor,  perhaps,  even  the  principal  fource  of  this 
form  of  fpeech.  Tropes  have  arifen  more  frequently,  and 
fpread  themfelves  wider,  from  the  influence  which  vmagination 
poiTelTes  over  Language.  The  train  on  which  this  has  pro- 
ceeded among  all  nations,  I  fhall  endeavour  to  explain. 
%  Every  obje<5^  which  makes  any  imprelllon  on  the  human 
mind,  is  conllantly  accompanied  with  certain:  circumftances 
and  relat'ons,  that  Jlrike  us  at  the  fame  time.  It  never  pre- 
fents  itft  If  to  our  view,  ifolc,  as  the  French  exprefs  it ;  that  is, 
independent  on,  and  feparated  from,  every  other  thing  ;  but  aJ- 
\v2ys  occurs  as  fomehovv  related  to  other  objeds  ;  going  be- 
fore them,  or  following  after  them  ;  their  effedl:  or  their  caufe  ; 
refembling  them,  or  oppofcd  to  thtm  ;  diftinguilhed  by  certain 
qualiti-is,  or  furrounded  with  certain  circumftances.  By  this 
means,  every  idea  or  object  carries  in  its  train  fome  other  ideas, 
which  may  be  ccnfidered  as  its  acceifories.  Thefe  accefibries 
often  ftrike  the  imagination  more  than  tlie  principal  idea  itfelf. 
They  are,  perhaps,  more  agreeable  ideas ;  or  they  are  more  fa- 
miliar to  our  conceptions  j  or  they  recal  to  our  memory  a 
greater  variety  of  important  circumftances.  The  imagination 
is  moi'e  difpofed  to  reft  upon  fome  of  them  ;  and  therefore  in- 
ilead  of  ufing  the  proper  name  of  the  principal  idea  which  it 
means  to  exprefs,  it  employs,  in  its  place,  the  name  of  the  ac- 
ceflbry  or  correfpondent  idea  ;  although  the  pincipal  have  a 
proper  and  well-known  name  of  its  own.  Hence  a  vaft  variety 
of  tropical  or  figurative  words  obtain  currency  in  all  Lan- 
guages, through  choice,  not  necefiity  ;  and  men  of  lively  im- 
aginations are  every  day  adding  to  their  number. 

Thus, 


Lect.XIV.      figurative  LANGUAGE. 


199 


Thus,  when  we  defign  to  intimate  the  period,  at  which  a 
ftate  enjoyed  mofl  reputation  or  glory,  it  were  eafy  to  employ 
the  proper  words  for  txprefling  this  ;  but  as  this  is  readily  coii- 
netled,  in  our  imagination,  v/ith  the  flouriihing  period  of  a 
plant  or  a  tree,  we  lay  hold  of  this  correfpondent  idea,  and 
fay,  "The  Roman  empire  flouriflied  rnoft  under  Auguftus." 
The  leader  of  a  fa(flion  is  plain  Language  ;  but,  becaufe  the 
head  is  the  principal  part  of  tlw  human  body,  and  is  fuppofed 
to  diretl  all  the  animal  operations,  reding  upon  tliis  refem- 
blance,  we  fay,  *'  Catiline  was  the  head  of  the  party."  The 
word,  'voice,  was  originally  invented  to  fignify  the  articulate 
found,  formed  by  the  organs  of  the  mouth  ;  but,  as  by  means 
of  it  men  fignlfy  their  ideas  and  their  intentions  to  each  other, 
voice  foon  alTumed  a  great  many  other  meanings,  all  derived 
from  this  primary  effect.  "  To  give  our  voice"  for  any  thing, 
fignified,  to  give  our  fentiment  in  favour  of  it.  Not  only  fo  ; 
but  voice  was  transuirred  to  fignify  any  intimation  of  will  or 
judgment,  thou'ih  given  without  the  lead  interpofition  of  voice 
in  its  literal  fenfe,  cr  any  found  uttered  at  all.  Thus  v/c  fpeak 
of  liftening  to  the  voice  of  Confcience,  the  voice  of  Nature,  the 
voice  of  God.  This  ufage  takes  place,  not  fo  much  from  bar- 
vennefs  of  Language,  or  want  of  a  proper  word,  as  from  ajA 
allufion  which  we  chqpfe  to  make  to  voice^  in  its  primary  fenfe,  / 
in  order  to  convey  our  idea,  connected  with  a  circumflance 
which  appears  to  the  fancy  to  give  it  more  fprightliuefs  and 
force. 

The  account  which  I  have  nofli|given,  and  which  feems  to 
be  a  full  and  fair  one,  of  tlie  introda<£tion  of  Tropes  into  all 
Languages,  coincides  •  with  what  Cicero  briefly  hints,  in  Iiis 
third  book,  Dc  Oratoi-c.  *'  Modus  transferendi  verba  late  patot ; 
**  quam  neceflitas  primam  gcnuit,  coadia  inopia  et  angudiis; 
**  poft  aut€m  dcIeiElatio,  jucunditafque  celebravit.  Nam  ut 
*'  vedis,  frigoris  depellendi  caufa  reperta  primo,  pod  adhibcri 
*'  ctepta  ed  ad  ornatum  etiam  corporis  ct  dignitatem,  (ic  verbi 
"  tranflatio  indituta  ed  inopix  caufa,  frequcntata,  delecia- 
«  tionis."*  From 

*  "  The  Fi<Tiirattve  ^^^;^J;c  of  words  It  very  cxtcnfive  ;  an  uf^jrc  to  whicli 
"  nccefTuy  firft  give  rife,  on  account  of  the  paucity  of  word's,  and  harrenaefs 
«  of  LAPifruaoc;  but  which  the  pteafiirc  that  was  found  in  it  aftcrw  jnls  reii- 
"  dcrcd  ficquctit.  For  as  garments  were  firft  contrived  to  defend  o  ir  bodi<« 
"  from  the  cold,  and  afterwards  were  emp!.iye;l  for  the  purpofe  of  ornament 
«  and  disunity,  fo  Fif;urcs  of  Speech,  iattoduccd  by  want,  wv.re  cakivated  for 
"  the  fake  of  cntcrtaimneut." 


aoo  ORrCIN  AND  NATURE  OF      Lect.  XIV. 

From  what  has  been  faid,  it  dearly  appears,  how  that  mull 
come  to  pafs,  which  I  had  occafion  to  mention  in  a  former 
Lecture,  that  all  Languages  are  moll  Figurative  in  their  early 
(late.  Both  the  caufcs  to  which  I  afcribcd  the  Origin  of  Figures, 
concur  in  producing  this  elT-iiCl  at  the  beginnings  of  fociety. 
Language  is  then  moft  barren ;  the  Jlock  of  proper  names 
which  have  been  invented  for  things,  is  fmall ;  and,  at  the 
fame  time,  imagination  exerts  great  influence  over  the  concep- 
tions of  men,  and  their  method  of  uttering  tliem ;  fo  that, 
both  from  necefiity  and  from  choice,  their  Speech  will,  at  that 
period,  abound  in  Tropes.  For  the  favage  tribes  of  men  are 
always  much  given  to  wonder  and  altoniiliment.  Every  new 
objefl  furprifes,  terrifies,  and  makes  a  (Irong  imprellion  on 
tlieir  mind  j  they  are  governed  by  imagination  and  paflion, 
more  than  by  reafon ;  and,  of  courfe,  their  Speech  mull  be 
deeply  tiu£tured  by  their  genius.  In  fa£l,  we  find,  that  this 
is  the  character  of  the  American  and  Indian  Languages  ;  bold, 
pidlurefque,  and  metaphorical  j  full  of  ftrong  allufions  to  fen- 
fible  qualities,  and  to  fuch  objedls  as  (truck  them  mod  in  their 
■wild  and  folitary  life.  An  Indian  chief  makes  a  harangue  to 
his  tribe,  in  a  ftyle  full  of  flronger  metaphors  than  an  European 
would  ufe  in  an  epic  poem. 

As  Language  makes  gradual  progrefs  towards  refinement, 
almofl  every  object  comes  to  have  a  proper  name  given  to  it, 
and  Perfpicuity  and  Precifion  are  more  ftudied.  But  ftill,  for 
the  reafons  before  given,  borrowed  words,  or  as  rhetoricians 
call  them.  Tropes,  muft  cAtinue  to  occupy  a  confulerable 
place.  In  every  Language,  too,  there  are  a  multitude  of  words, 
wliich,  though  they  were  Figurative  in  their  firfb  application 
to  certain  objectts,  yet,  by  long  ufe,  lofe  that  Figurative  power 
wholly,  and  come  to  be  confidered  as  fimple  and  literal  expref- 
fions.  In  this  cafe,  are  the  terms  which  I  remarked  before,  as 
transferred  from  fenfible  qualities  to  the  operations  or  quali- 
ties of  the  mind,  a  piercing  judgment,  a  clear  head,  a  /^arr/ heart, 
and  the  like.  There  are  other  words  which  remain  in  a  fort 
of  middle  ftate  ;  which  have  neither  loll  wholly  their  figura- 
tive application,  nor  yet  retain  fo  much  of  it,  as  to  imprint 
any  remarkable  charadler  of  figured  Language  on  our  ftyle  ; 
fuch  as  thcfe  phrafes,  "  apprehend  one's  meanivig  :"    "  enter 

on 


Lect.XIV.      figurative  LANCaAGE.  201" 

*'  on  a  fubjecl:  ;"  "  follow  out  an  argument ;"  "  ftir  up  ftrife;'* 
and  a  grc^t  many  more,  of  which  our  Language  is  full.  In  tlie 
ufe  of  fuch  phrafes,  corre6i:  writers  will  always  preferve  a  re- 
gard to  tlie  Figure  or  allufion  on  which  they  are  founded,  and 
will  be  careful  not  to  apply  them  in  any  way  that  is  inconfiftent 
with  it.  One  may  be  *'  (lieltered  under  the  patronage  of  a 
**  great  man  ;"  but  it  were  wrong  to  fay,  "  flieltered  under  the 
**  mafque  of  diOimulatlon,"  as  a  mafque  conceals,  but  docs  not 
flielter.  An  obje<fl,  in  defcription,  may  be  "  clothed"  if  you 
will,  "  with  epithets ;"  but  it  is  not  fo  proper  to  fpeak  of  its 
being  "  clothed  with  circumflanccs  •"  as  the  word  "  circum- 
"  ftances,"  alludes  to  ffcanding  round,  not  to  clothing.  Such 
attentions  as  thefe  are  requilite  in  the  common  run  of  ftyle. 

What  has  been  faid  on  this  fubje6l,  tends  to  throw  light  on 
the  nature  of  Language  in  general,  and  will  lead  to  the  rea- 
fons,  Why  Tropes  and  Figures  contribute  to  the  beauty  and 
grace  (^  flyle. 

Firfl:,  They  enrich  Language,  and  render  it  more  copious. 
By  their  means,  words  and  phrafes  are  multiplied  for  exprcll- 
ing  all  forts  of  ideas  ;  for  defcribing  even  the  minuted  differ- 
ences ;  the  nicefl;  (hades  and  colours  of  thought  ;  which  no 
Language  could  poffibly  do  by  proper  words  alone,  without 
ailiftance  from  Tropes.  ! 

Secondly,  They  bellow  dignity  upon  Style.  The  familiari- 
ty of  common  words,  to  which  our  ears  are  much  accuftomed, 
tend;;  to  degrade  Style.  When  we  want  to  adapt  our  Language 
to  the  tone  of  an  elevated  fubje-il,  we  would  be  greatly  at  a 
lofs,  if  M'e  could  not  borrow  affiltance  from  Figures  ;  which, 
properly  employed,  have  a  fimilar  efFe£l  on  Language,  v/itli 
what  is  produced  by  the  rich  and  fplendid  di"efs  of  a  perfon  o£ 
rank  ;  to  create  refpe6t,  and  to  give  an  air  of  magnificence  to 
him  who  wears  it.  AfTiftance  of  this  kind,  is  often  needed  in 
profe  compofitions  ;  but  poetry  could  not  fubfill  without  it. 
Hence  Figures  form  the  conftant  Language  of  poetry.  To  fay, 
that  "the  fun  rifes,"  is  trite  and  common  ;  but  it  becomes  a 
magnificent  image  when  cxprefled,  as  Mr.  Thomfon  has  done  : 

But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day 
Rejoicing  in  the  eaft. — — 

Cg  To 


not  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF      Lect.XIV. 

To  fay,  tlxot  "all  men  are  fubjc£l  alike  to  death,"  prefents  on- 
ly a  vulgar  idea  ;  but  it  rifes  and  fills  the  imagination,  when 
painted  thus  by  Horace  : 


Pr, 


Pallida  mors  a?quo  pulfat  pede,  paupcrum  tabernas 
Regumque  lurres. 

Omnes  eodem  coc;imur  ;  omnium 

Verlatur  urna,  ferius,  ocyus, 
Sors  exitura,  &  nos  in  eternum 

Exiiium  inipolitura  cymbae.* 


In  the  third  place.  Figures  give  us  the  pleafurc  of  enjoying 
two  objects  prefented  together  to  our  view,  without  confufion  ; 
the  principal  idea,  which  is  the  fubjc£l  of  the  difcourfe,  along 
with  its  acceffory,  which  gives  it  the  Figurative  drefs.  We  fee 
one  thing  in  another,  as  Arlftotle  expvefTes  it ;  which  is  always 
agreeable  to  the  mind.  For  there  is  nothing  with  which  the 
fancy  is  more  delighted,  than  with  comparifons,  and  refem- 
blances  of  obje6ls  *,  and  all  Tropes  are  founded  upon  feme  rela- 
tion or  analogy  between  one  thing  and  another.  When,  for 
inftance,  in  place  of  "  youth,"  I  fay,  the  "morning  of  life  ;" 
the  fancy  is  immediately  entertained  with  all  the  refembling 
circumflances  which  prefently  occur  between  thefe  two  objefts. 
At  one  moment,  1  have  in  my  eye  a  certain  period  of  human 
life,  and  a  certain  time  of  the  day,  fo  related  to  each  other, 
that  the  imagination  plays  between  them  with  pleafure,  and 
contemplates  two  fimilar  objects,  in  one  view,  without  embar- 
TafTment  or  confufion.      Not  only  fo,  but, 

In  the  fourth  place,  Figures  are  attended  with  this  farther 
advantage,  of  giving  us  frequently  a  much  clearer  and  more 
ftriking  view  of  the  principal  obje£l,  than  we  could  have  if  it 
were  exprciTcd  in  fimple  terms,  and  divefted  of  its  acceffory  idea. 
This  is,  indeed,  their  principal  advantage,  in  virtue  of  which, 
they  are  very  properly  faid  to  illuftrate  a  fubje£l:,  or  to  throw 
light  upon  it.  For  they  exhibit  the  objeft,  on  which  they  are 
employed,  in  a  |)i£lurefque  form  ;  they  can  render  an  abflracb 

conception. 


Or, 


*  With  equal  pace,  impartial  fate 

Knocks  at  the  palace,  as  the  cottage  gate. 

Wc  all  mufl  tread  the  paths  of  fate; 

And  ever  fhakcs  the  mortal  uru  ; 
Whofe  lot  embarks  us,  foon  or  latt, 

Oo  Charott's  boat ;  ah !  never  to  returH.  FiUNCi-s. 


Lect.XIV.       figurative  language.  i6j 

conception,  in  fome  degree,  an  objc£l  of  fenfe  ;  they  furround 
it  with  fuch  circumftances,  as  enable  the  mind  to  lay  hold  of  it 
fteadily,  and  to  contemplate  it  fully.  "Thofe  perfons,"  fays 
one, "  who  gain  the  hearts  of  mod  people,  who  ate  chofen  a3 
**  the  companions  of  their  fofter  hours,  and  their  reliefs  from 
**  anxiety  and  care,  arc  feldom  perfons  of  flnining  qualities,  or 
*  ftrong  virtues  :  it  is  rather  the  foft  green  of  the  foul,  ort 
**  which  we  refl:  our  eyes,  that  are  fatigued  with  beholding 
"  more  glaring  objects."  Here,  by  a  happy  allufion  to  a  colour, 
the  whole  conception  is  conveyed  clear  and  ftrong  to  the  mind 
in  one  word.  By  a  well  chofen  Figure,  even  conviction  is  af- 
filed, and  the  imprcflion  of  a  truth  upon  the  mii'id,  made  mord 
lively  and  forcible  than  it  would  otherwife  be.  As  in  the  fol- 
lowing illuftration  of  Dr.  Young's  :  "  When  we  dip  too  deep 
*'  itt  pleafure,  we  always  flir  a  fediment  that  renders  it  impure 
•*  and  noxious  ;"  or  in  this,  "  A  heart  boiling  with  violent 
**  paffions,  will  always  fend  up  infatuating  fumes  to  the  head.'* 
An  image  that  prefents  fo  much  congruity  between  a  moral 
and  a  fenfible  idea,  ferves  like  an  argument  from  analogy,  t6 
enforce  what  the  author  afferts,  and  to  induce  belief. 

Befides,  whether  we  are  en^avouring  to  raife  fentiments  of 
pleafure  or  averfion,  we  can  always  heighten  the  emotion  by 
the  Figures  which  we  introduce  ;  leading  the  imagination  to  Ji 
train,  either  of  agreeable  or  difagrceable,  of  exalting  or  debafing 
ideas,  corrcfpondent  to  the  impreffion  which  we  feek  to  make. 
When  we  want  to  render  an  obje£l  beautiful,  or  magjiificent, 
we  borrow  images  from  all  the  moft  beautiful  or  fplendid  fcenes 
of  nature  ;'  we  thereby  naturally  throw  a  luftre  over  our  ob- 
jefl  •,  we  cnl^en  the  reader's  mindj  and  difpofe  him  to  go 
along  with  us,  in  the  gay  and  pleafing  impreffions  which  we 
give  him  of  the  fubjed;.  Tins  etfcdl  of  Figures  is  happily 
touched  in  the  following  lines  of  Dr.  Akenfide,  and  illulhated 
by  a  very  fublime  Figure  : 


-Then  th'  inexprcflive  ftrain. 


Diffufos  its  enchantment.     Fancy  dreams 
Of  liicred  fountains  and  Elyfian  groves, 
And  vales  of  bliis.     Tlie  intollednai  power 
Bends  from  his  awful  throne  a  wond'ring  ear, 

And  fmili;";. ■ . 

Pleaf.  of  Imaginat.  1. 134. 

What 


504  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF      Lect.  XIV. 

What  I  have  now  explained,  concerning  the  ufe  and  efFe£ls 
of  Figures,  naturally  leads  us  tOjreflecT:  on  the  wonderful  power 
of  Language ;  and,  indeed,  we  cannot  rcfleQ  on  it  witliout  the 
higheft  admiration.  What  a  fine  vehicle  is  it  now  become  for 
all  the  conceptions  of  the  human  mind  ;  even  for  the  mod 
fubtile  and  delicate  u'orkings  of  the  imagination  !  What  a  pliant 
and  flexible  inllrument  in  the  hand  of  one  who  can  employ  it 
fkilfully  ;  prepared  to  take  every  form  which  he  choofes  to  give 
it !  Not  content  with  a  fimple  communication  of  ideas  and 
thoughts,  it  paints  thofe  ideas  to  the  eye ;  it  gives  colouring 
and  relievo,  even  to  the  moft  abftract  conceptions.  In  the  Fig- 
ures which  it  ufes,  it  fets  mirrors  before  us,  where  we  may  be- 
hold objefts,  a  fecond  time,  in  their  likcnefs.  It  entertains  us, 
as  with  a  fuccefRon  of  the  moft  fpiendid  pi£lures  ;  difpofes,  in 
the  mod  artificial  manner,  of  the  light  and  fliadc,  for  viewing 
every  thing  to  the  bell  advantage  ;  in  fine,  from  being  a  rude 
and  imperfect  interpreter  of  men's  wants  and  neceflitics,  it  has, 
now  palled  into  an  niftrument  of  the  moft  delicate  and  refin- 
ed luxury. 

To  make  thefe  efFet^s  of  Figurative  Language  fenfible,  there 
are  few  authors  in  the  Engliih  ^nguage,  whom  I  can  refer  to 
with  more  advantage  than  Mr.  Addifon,  whofe  imagination  is, 
at  once,  remarkably  rich,  and  remarkably  correct  and  chafte. 
When  he  is  treating,  for  inftance,-X)f  the  effetl  wiiich  light 
and  colours  have  to  entertain  the  fancy,  confidercd  in  INlr. 
Locke's  view  of  them  as  fecondary  qualities,  which  have  no  real 
exiftence  in  matter,  but  are  only  ideas  in  the  mind,  with  what 
beautiful  painting  has  he  adorned  this  philofophic  fpeculation  .'* 
**  Thiiigs,"  fays  he,  "  would  make  but  a  poorf^ppcarance  to 
*•*  the  eye,  if  we  faw  them  only  in  their  proper  Figures  and 
''  motions.  Now,  we  are  every  where  entertained  with  pleaf- 
"  ing  (hows  and  apparitions  ;  we  difcover  imaginary  glories  in 
*'  the  heavens,  and  in  the  earth,  and  fee  fome  of  thi^pjifionary 
**  beauty  poured  out  upon  the  whole  creation.  But  what  a 
**■  rough  unfightly  Iketch  of  nature  Ihould  we  be  entertained 
*'  with,  did  all  her  colouring  difappear,  and  the  feveral  dif- 
*'  tin£lions  of  light  and  fliade  vaniQi  ?  In  fliort,  our  fouls  are, 
*'  at  prefent,  delightfully  loft,  and  bewildered  in  a  pleafing  de- 
"  lufion  :  and  we  walk  about  like  the  enchanted  hero  of  a  ro- 
*'  mance,  who  fees  beautiful  caftlejj^  woods,  and  meadows  ; 

"  and. 


d  caftlejt  w 


Iect.  XIV.      FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  -a; 

**  and,  at  the  fame  time,  hears  the  warbling  of  birds,  and  the 
**  purling  of  flreams  j  but,  upon  the  fiuifhing  of  feme  fecrct 
*•  fpell,  the  fantaflic  fcene  breaks  up,  and  the  difconfolatc 
"  knight  finds  himfclf  on  a  barren  heath,  or  in  a  folitary  defert- 
**  It  is  not  improbable,  that  fomcthing  like  this  may  be  the 
**  Hate  of  the  foul  after  its  firfl;  feparation,  in  rcfpe6l  of  the 
**  images  it  will  receive  from  matter."     No.  413,  Spectator. 

Having  thus  explained,  at  fufEcient  length,  the  Origin,  the 
Nature,  and  the  Effe£ls  of  Tropes,  I  fliould  proceed  next  to  the 
feveral  kinds  and  divifions  of  them.  But,  in  treating  of  thefe, 
were  I  to  follow  the  common  track  of  the  fcholaftic  writers  oa 
rhetoric,  I  ibould  foon  become  tedious,  and,  I  apprehend,  ufe- 
lefs,  at  the  fame  time.  Their  great  bufmefs  has  been,  with  a 
moll  patient  and  frivolous  induftry,  to  brancli  them  out  under 
a  vaft  number  of  divifions,  according  to  all  the  feveral  modes 
in  which  a  word  may  be  carried  from  its  literal  meaning,  into 
one  that  is  Figurative,  without  doing  any  more  ;  as  if  the  mere 
knowledge  of  the  names  and  chiles  of  all  the  Tropes  that  can 
be  formed,  could  be  of  any  advantage  towards  the  proper,  or 
graceful  ufe  of  Language.  Ail  that  I  purpofe  is,  to  give,  in  a 
few  words,  before  finifliing  this  Le<Slure,  a  general  view  of  the 
feveral  fources  whence  the  tropical  meaning  of  words  is  deriv- 
ed :  after  which  I  (liall,  in  fubfequent  Ledlures,  defcend  to  a 
more  particular  confideration  of  fome  of  the  mcft  confiderable 
Figures  of  Speech,  and  fuch  as  are  in  mofl  frequent  ufe  ;  by 
treating  of  which,  I  fliall  give  all  the  inftrudlion  1  can,  concern- 
ing the  proper  employment  of  Figurative  Language,  and  point 
out  the  errors  and  abufes  which  are  apt  to  be  committed  in  this 
part  of  llylc^ 

All  Tropes,  as  I  before  obferved,  are  founded  on  the  relation 
which  one  objccl  bears  to  another ;  in  virtue  of  which,  the 
name  of  the  one  can  be  fubflituted  inftead  of  the  name  of  the 
other,  ^id  by  fuch  a  fubltitution,  the  vivacity  of  the  idea  is 
commonly  meant  to  be  increafed.  Thefe  relations,  fome  more, 
fome  lefs  intimate,  may  all  give  rife  to  Tropes-  One  of  the 
firfl  and  mofh  obvious  relations  is,  that  between  acaufe  and  its 
efFedt.  Hence,  in  Figurative  Language,  the  caufe  is,  fome- 
times,  put  for  the  efl'ecl.     Thus,  Mr.  Addifon,  writing  of 


Italy 


BlofToms,  and  fruits,  and  flowers,  together  rife, 
And  the  whole  yerfr  in  gay  confulion  lies. 

♦      ,  .  Where 


2tj<5  ORIGIN  i^Nt)  NATURE  OF      Lect.  XIV. 

Where  the  "  whole  year"  is  plainly  intended,  to  fignify  the 
cffcfts  or  produ<5tions  of  all  the  feafons  of  the  year.  At  other 
times,  again,  the  effedl  is  put  for  the  caufe  ;  as,  "  grey  hairs'* 
frequently  for  old  age,  vhich  caufes  grey  hairs  j  and  *'  fhadc,** 
for  trees  that  produce  the  ihade.  Tiie  relation  between  the 
container  and  the  thing  contained,  is  alfo  fo  intimate  and  obvi- 
ous, as  naturally  to  give  rife  to  '1  ropes  : 

-Hie  Impiger  haufit 


Spumantem  pateram  Sc  pleno  le  proluif  aara. 

"Where  every  one  fees,  that  the  cup  and  the  gold  arc  put  for  the 
liquor  that  was  contained  in  the  golden  cup.  In  the  fame  man- 
ner, the  name  of  any  country,  is  often  ufed  to  denote  the  inhab* 
itants  of  that  country  ;  and  Heaven,  very  commonly  employed 
to  fignify  God,  bccaufe  he  is  conceived  as  dwelling  in  heaven. 
To  implore  the  affiilance  of  Heaven,  is  the  fame  as  to  implore 
the  afliflance  of  God.  The  relation  betwixt  any  eflablifhed 
Cgn  and  the  thing  fignified,  is  a  further  fource  of  Tropes. 
Hence, 

Cedant  arma  togas ;  concedat  laurea  linguar. 

The  "  toga,"  being  the  badge  o*?  the  civil  proftiTions,  and  the 
•'  laurel,"  of  military  honours,  the  badge  of  each  is  put  for  the 
civil  and  military  characters  themfeives.  To  *'  afl'ume  the 
**  fceptre,"  is  a  common  phrafe  for  entering  on  royal  authority. 
To  Tropes,  founded  on  thefe  feveral  relations,  of  caufe  and 
efre£l,  container  and  contained,  fign  and  thing  fignificd,  is 
given  the  name  of  Metonymy. 

When  the  Trope  is  founded  on  the  relation  between  an  an- 
tecedent and  a  confequent,  or  what  goes  before,  and  immedi- 
ately follows  after,  it  is  then  called  a  Metalepfis  ;  as  in  the  Ro- 
man phrafe  of  '*  Fuit,"  or  "  Vixit,"  to  exprefs  that  one  was  dead. 
**  Fuit  Ilium  et  ingens  gloria  Dardanidum,"  fignifics,  ijiat  the 
glory  of  Troy  is  now  no  more. 

When  the  whole  is  put  for  a  part,  or  a  part  for  the  whole  j 
a  genus  for  a  fpecies,  or  a  fpecies  for  a  genus ;  the  fingular  for 
the  plural,  or  the  plural  for  the  Angular  number ;  in  general, 
"when  any  thing  !efs,  or  any  thing  more,  is  put  for  the  precife 
Cbjed  rneantj  the  Figure  is  then  called  a  Synecdoche.     It  is 

very 


Lect.  XIV.      FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE. 


207 


very  common,  for  inftance,  to  defcribe  a  whole  objeft  by  fome 
remarkable  part  of  it ;  as  when  we  fay,  *'  A  fleet  of  fo  many 
*'  fail,"  in  the  place  of  "  flilps  ;**  when  wc  ufe  the  "  head"  for 
the  "  perfon,"  the  "  pole"  for  the  "earth,"  the  "  waves"  for  the 
**  fea."  In  like  manner,  an  attribute  may  be  put  for  a  fubje£t ; 
as,  **  youth  and  beauty,**  for  "  the  young  and  beautiful  j"  and 
fometimes  a  fubjetfl  for  the  attribute.  But  it  is  needlefs  to  in- 
fift  longer  on  this  enumeration,  which  ferves  little  purpofe.  I 
have  faid  enough,  to  give  an  opening  into  that  great  variety  of 
relations  between  ohjedts,  by  means  of  which,  the  mind  is  af- 
fifted  to  pafs  eafily  from  one  to  another ;  and,  by  the  name  of 
the  one,  underftands  the  other  to  be  meant.  It  it  always  fome 
acceflbry  idea,  which  recals  the  principal  to  the  imagination; 
and  commonly  recals  it  with  more  force,  than  if  the  principal 
idea  had  been  exprefTed. 

The  relation  which,  of  all  others,  is  by  far  the  moft  fruitful 
of  Tropes,  I  have  not  yet  mentioned  -,  that  is,  the  relation  of 
Similitude  and  Refemblance.  On  this  is  founded  what  is  call- 
ed the  Metaphor :  when,  in  place  of  ufing  the  proper  name  of 
any  object,  we  employ,  in  its  place,  the  name  of  fome  other 
which  is  like  it ;  which  is  »  fort  of  pi£lurc  of  it,  and  which 
thereby  awakens  the  conception  of  it  with  more  force  or  grace. 
This  figure  is  more  frequent  than  all  the  reft  put  together  ;  and 
the  language,  both  of  profe  and  verfe,  owes  to  it  much  of  its 
elegance  and  grace.  This,  therefore,  deferves  very  full  and 
particular  coufideration  i  and  ihall  be  the  fubjc^t  of  the  next 
Ledure. 


LECTURp 


LECTURE        XV. 


IM    E    T    A    P    H     O     R. 


Ai 


-FTER  the  preliminary  obfervations  I  iiave  made, 
relating  to  Figurative  Language  in  general,  I  come  now  to 
treat  fcparatily  of  fuch  figures  of  fpeech,  as  occur  moll  fre- 
quently, and  require  particular  attention  :  and  1  begin  with 
Metaphor.  '  This  is  a  figure  founded  entirely  on  the  refcm- 
blance  which  one  obje£l  bears  to  another.  Hence,  it  is  much 
allied  to  fimile,  or  comparifon  •,  and  is  indeed  no  other  than 
a  comparifon,  expreffed  in  an  abridged  form.  When  I  fay  of 
fome  great  minifter,  "  that  he  upholds  the  Rate,  like  a  pillar 
"  which  fupports  the  weight  of  a  whole  edifice,"  I  fairly  make 
a  comparifon  ;  but  when  I  fay  of  fuch  a  minifler,  "  that  he  is 
**the  pillar  of  the  date,"  it  is  now  become  a  Metaphor.  The 
comparifon  betwixt  the  minifter  and  a  pillar,  is  made  in  the 
mind  ;  but  is  exprefled  without  any  of  the  words  that  denote 
comparifon.  The  comparifon  is  only  infinuatcd,  not  exprefled  : 
the  one  objedl  is  fuppofcd  to  be  fo  like  the  other,  that,  without 
formally  drawing  the  comparifon,  the  name  of  the  one  may  be 
put  in  the  place  of  the  name  of  the  other.  "  Tlie  minifter  is 
**  tlie  pillar  of  the  Hate."  This,  therefore,  is  a  more  lively  and 
animated  manner  of  exprefling  the  refemblances  which  imag- 
ination traces  among  objects.  Thci'C  is  nothing  which  delights 
the  fancy  more,  than  this  a£l  of  comparing  things  together,  dif- 
covering  refemblances  between  them,  and  defcribing  them  by 
their  likenefs.  The  mind  thus  employed,  is  excrcifed  m  ithout 
being  fatigued  ;  and  is  gratified  with  the  confcioufnefs  of  its 
own  ingenuity.  We  need  not  be  furprifed,  therefore,  at  find- 
ing all  language  flrongly  tinctured  with  Metaphor.  It  iiffinu- 
ates  even  into  familiar  converfation  •,  and,  unfought,  rifes  up 
of  its  own  accord  in  the  mind.  The  very  words  which  I  have 
cafually  employed  in  defcribing  this,  arc  a  proof  of  what  I  fay  ; 

tlncluredf 


L^ciOXV-         METAPHOR.  ?ip9 

ii.'t.lien'd,  i/i/tuuates,  rJfes  tip,  are  all  jf  thern  mccaphorlcal  expref* 
fioiis,  bojaffiMireci  from  fomc  rek:mblaace  which  f'aacy  forms  be- 
tween fcipBle  objedls,  and  the  internal  operations  of  the  mind  ; 
and  yet  tlie  terms  are  no  lefs  clear,  and,  perhaps,  more  exprcf- 
fiye,  than  if  words  had  been  ufed,  which  were  to  be  taken  ia 
.Title  Ihirt  and  literal  fcnfc. 

Though  all  Metaphor  imports  comparlfon,  and,  thsreforet 
hf  in  that  refpecij:,  a  figiire  of  thought ;  yet,  as  the  words  ia 
^  JVIetaphor  are  not  taken  literally,  but  changed  from  tneir 
proper  to  a  hgurative  fcnfe,  the  M-taphor  is  commonly  rank- 
ed among  tropes  or  figures  of  words.  But,  provided  the  na- 
ture of  it  be  well  underdood,  it  fignifies  very  little  whether 
>ve  call  it  a  figure  or  a  trope.  I  have  coniined  it  to  the  ex- 
prelfipn  of  resemblance  between  two  objcSts.  I  mult  remark, 
however,  that  tlie  word  Metaphor  is  fometimes  ufed  in  a  loofer 
and  more  extended  fcnfe  ;  for  the  application  of  a  term  in  any 
figurative  fignification,  whether  the  figure  be  founded  on  re- 
fena'jlance,  or  on  fome  other  relation,  which  two  objects  bear 
to  one  another.  For  inftance  ;  when  grey  hairs  are  put  fox 
pld  a;jc  ;  as,  "  to  bring  one's  grey  hairs  with  forrow  to  the 
*'  grave  ■,"  fome  writers  would  call  this  a  Metaphor,  though  it 
is  not  properly  one,  but  what  rhetoricians  call  a  metonymy  ; 
th;it  is,  the  effeil  put  for  the  caufe  ;  "  grey  hairs"  being  the  efr 
ictX  of  old  age,  but  not  bearing  any  fort  of  refemblance  to  it. 
Ariltotie,  in  his  Poetics,  ufes  Metaphor  in  this  extended  fenfe, 
for  any  figurative  meaning  impofed  upon  a  word  ;  as  a  whole 
put  for  the  part,  or  a  part  for  the  whole  ;  a  fpecies  for  the  ge- 
nus, or  a  genus  for. the  fpecies.  But  it  would  be  unjull  to  taj 
this  rpoft  acute  writer  with  any  inaccuracy  on  this  account} 
the  minute  fubdlvifions,  ajid  various  names  of  tropes,  being 
unknown  in  liis  days,  and  the  invention  of  later  rhetoricians. 
Now,  however,  when  thefe  divifions  are  eftabliiiied,  it  is  inac?- 
curate  to  call  every  *"  ^uratlve  ufe  of  terms,  promifcuoufly,  a 
Metaphor. 

Of  all  the  figures  of  Speech,  none  comes  fo  near  to  painting  as 
Metaphor.  Its  peculiar  effect  is  to  give  light  and  ftrength  to  de- 
fcription  ;  to  make  intellectual  ideas,  in  fome  fort,  vifible  to  the 
eye,  by  giving  them  colour,  and  fybftance,  and  fenfible  quali- 
ties. In  order  to  produce  this  effetl,  however,  a  ddicate  hand 
D  D  i» 


aio  M    E    T    A    P    H    O    R.  Lect.  XV. 

is  required  ;  for,  by  a  very  little  inaccuracy,  we  are  in  hazard 
of  introducing^  confufion,  in  place  of  promoting  perfpicuity. 
Several  rules,  therefore,  are  neceflary  to  be  given  for  wie  proper 
management  of  INIetaphors.  But,  before  entering  on  thefe,  I 
fhall  give  one  indance  of  a  very  beautiful  Metaphor,  that  I  may 
fhow  the  figure  to  full  advantage.  I  fhall  take  my  inftance 
from  Lord  Bolingbroke's  Remarks  on  the  Hiflory  of  England* 
Juft  at  the  conclufion  of  his  work,  he  is  fpeaking  of  the  be- 
haviour of  Charles  I.  to  his  laft  parliament :  "  In  a  word,"  fays 
he,  "about  a  month  after  their  meeting,  he  diffblved  them  ;  and, 
"  as  foon  as  he  had  diifolved  them,  lie  repented  ;  but  he  rcpent- 
**  ed  too  late  of  his  raflmefs.  Well  might  he  repent ;  for  the 
*'  vcfTel  was  now  full,  and  this  lafl:  drop  made  the  waters  of 
**  bitternefs  overflow."  "  Here,"  he  adds,  "  we  draw  the  cur- 
*'  tain,  and  put  an  end  to  our  remarks."  Nothing  could  be  more 
happily  thrown  olv.  The  Metaphor,  we  fee,  is  continued 
through  fcveral  expreffions.  The  njeffcl  is  put  for  the  ftate,  or 
temper  of  the  nation  already  fully  that  is,  provoked  to  the 
higheft  by  former  oppreffions  and  wrongs  ;  ti\\s,lajl  drop,  (lands 
for  the  provocation  recently  received  by  the  abrupt  diffolution 
of  the  parliament ;  and  the  oi^rflowing  of  the  ivaters  of  bitternefs ^ 
beautifully  expreffes  all  the  effects  of  refcntment  let  loofe  by  an 
cxafperated  people. 

On  this  paflage,  we  may  make  two  remarks  in  paffing.  The 
one,  that  nothing  forms  a  more  fpirited  and  dignified  conclufion 
of  a  fubje£l,than  a  figure  of  this  kiiul  happily  placed  at  the  clofe. 
Wefee  the  effe6l  of  it,  in  this  inflance.  The  author  goes  off  with 
a  good  grace  ;  and  leaves  a  ftrong  and  full  imprefilon  of  his  fub- 
ject  on  the  reader's  ;nind.  My  other  remark  is,  the  advantage 
which  a  Metaphor  frequently  has  above  a  formal  comparifon. 
How  much  would  the  fentiment  here  have  been  enfeebled,  if  it 
had  been  exprefied  in  the  ilyle  of  a  regular  fimile,  thus  :  "  Well 
*'  might  he  repent  9  for  the  ftate  of  th;i  nation,  loaded  with 
*'  grievances  and  provocations,  refembled  a  veflcl  that  was  now 
■**  full,  and  this  fuperadded  provocation,  like  the  lafl:  drop  infufed, 
"  made  their  rage  and  refentment,  as  waters  of  bitternefs,  over- 
•*'  flow."  It  lias  infinitely  more  fpirit  and  force  as  it  now  ftands, 
in  the  form  of  a  ISIetaphor.  "  Well  might  he  repent ;  for  the 
*'  veffel  was  now  full  j  aiul  this  laft  drop  made  the  waters  of 
bitternefs  overflow."  Having 


Lect.XV.  metaphor.  jiI 

Having  mentioned,  \fi'lth  applaufe,  this  inftancc  from  Lord 
BoHngbroke,  I  think  it  incumbent  on  me  here  to  take  notice, 
that,  though  I  may  have  recourfe  to  this  autlior,  fometimes,  for 
examples  of  llyle,  it  is  his  ftyle  only,  and  not  his  fentiments, 
that  deferve  praife.  It  is  indeed  my  opinion,  that  there  arc 
few  writings  ip  the  Engllfli  Language,  which,  for  the  matter 
contained  in  them,  can  be  read  with  Icfs  profit  or  fruit,  than 
Lord  Bolingbroke's  works.  His  pohtical  writings  have  the 
merit  of  a  very  Hvely  and  eloquent  ftylc  •,  but  they  have  no 
other  ;  being,  as  to  the  fubRance,  the  mere  temporary  produc- 
tions of  fa£lion  and  party  ;  no  better,  indeed,  than  pamphlets 
written  for  the  day.  His  Pofthumous,  or,  as  they  are  called, 
his  Philofophical  Works,  wherein  he  attacks  religion,  have  flill 
lefs  merit ;  for  they  are  as  loofe  in  the  ftyle  as  they  are  flimfy 
in  the  reafoning.  An  unhappy  inftance,  this  author  is,  of  parts 
and  genius  fo  miferably  perverted  by  fa£lion  and  paflion,  that, 
as  his  memory  will  dtfcend  to  pofterity  with  little  honour,  fo 
his  productions  will  foon  pafs,  and  are,  indeed,  already  pafling 
into  ncgle6l  and  oblivion. 

Returning  from  this  digrefCon  to  the  fubjeQ  before  us,  I 
proceed  to  lay  down  the  rules  to  be  obfei^vcd  in  the  condu6l  of 
Metaphors  ;  and  which  are  much  the  fame  for  tropes  of  every 
kind. 

The  fjrft  that  I  fhall  mention,  is,  that  they  be  fuited  to  the 
nature  of  the  fubjeCl  of  v/hich  we  treat ;  neither  too  many, 
nor  too  gay,  nor  too  elevated  for  it  j  that  we  neither  attempt 
to  force  the  fubjcft,  by  means  of  them,  into  a  degree  of  eleva- 
tion which  is  not  congruous  to  it ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  al- 
low it  to  fink  below  its  proper  dignity.  ■  This  is  a  dire£lion 
which  belongs  to  all  Figurative  Language,  and  fliould  be  ever 
kept  in  view.  Some  Metaphors  are  allowable,  nay,  beautiful, 
in  poetry,  which  it  would  be  abfurd  and  unnatural  to  employ 
in  profe ;  fome  may  be  graceful  in  orations,  which  would  be 
very  improper  in  hiftbrical,  or  philofophical  compofition.  Wc 
mull  remember,  that  figures  are  the  drefs  of  our  fentiments. 
As  there  is  a  natural  congruity  between  drefs,  and  the  charac- 
ter or  rank  of  the  perfon  who  wears  it,  a  violation  of  which 
congruity  never  fails  to  liurt  ;  the  fame  hold^  precifely  as  to 
the  application  of  figur-es  to  fentimerit.  ^  The  exceiTive,  or  un- 
feafonablc  employment  of  them,  is  mere  foppery  in  writing 

I 


iti  isr    E   T    A    P    H    O    R.         Lect.  XV. 

It  gives  a  boyifh  air  to  compodrion  ;  and,  indead  of  raifing  a 
fubje<ft,  in  hOi^  diminiOies  i'.s  dignity,  tovy  as  in  life,  true 
ilfigmty  nnuft  be  founded  on  charafler,  not  on  drefs  and  appear- 
ance, fo  the  dignity  of  compofition  fnufl  arife  from  firntiment 
and  thought,  not  from  ornament.  The  aifecVation  and  parade 
of  orfiament,  detract  as  much  from  an  authof,  aS  they  do  frofA 
a  man.  Figures  and  Metaphors,  therefore*  fhould,  on  no  occa- 
fion,  be  (luck  on  too  profuf.Iy  ;  and  never  fhould  be  fuch  as 
refufe  to  accord  with  the  ftrnin  of  our  fenti merit.  Nothing 
can  be  more  unnatural,  than  for  a  writer  to  carry  on  a  traii'i 
of  reafoning,  in  the  f^mne  fort  of  Figurative  Language,  which 
he  would  ufe  in  defcriprion.  AVhen  he  rcafons,  we  look  otily 
ifor  perfpicuity  ;  when  he  defcribes,  wc  expet"):  embeiUriimcnt ; 
when  he  d'viJes,  or  relate^;,  we  de fire  plainnefs  and  iimii'icity. 
One  of  the  greateft  fecrets  in  compofition  is,  to  know  when  t6 
be  fimple.  This  always  gives  a  heightening  to  ornament,  iA 
its  proper  place.  The  right  difpofition  yf  the  fliade,  makes  the 
light  and  colouring  ftrike  the  more  :  "  Is  enim  eft  eloquens," 
fays  Cicero,  *'  qui  et  humilia  fubtiliter,  et  magna  graviter,  et 
**  mediocria  temperate  potetl:  v'icere.  Nam  qui  nihil  poteft 
*'  tvanq-uille,  nihil  lesiter,  nihil  definite,  diftinfte,  poteft  dicer^, 
•*  is,  cum  non  prreparatis  auribus  irjl-u-nmare  rem  c?apit,  furcrc 
*'  apudfanos,et  quafiinter  fobriosbacchari  temulentusvidetur."* 
This  admonition  fhould  be  particulairly  attended  to  by  young 
praclitloners  in  the  art  bf  writing,  v/ho  are  apt  to  b?  carried 
away  by  an  undi'linguilhing  admiration  of  what  is  Ihowy  arid 
florid,  whether  in  its  plaCe  or  not.f  The 

•  "  He  is  truly  eloquent,  wlio  c^n  rlifcov.rfc  of  liiimble  fubjccfls  in  a  pl.iin 
**  ftyle,  who  can  treat  important  ones  with  di;;iiity,and  fpcak  o»"  tilings,  wl.ich 
"  are  of  a  middle  nature,  in  a  temperate  Arain.  For  one  \v!io,  npon  no  oc- 
«'  cafion,  can  exprefs  himfclf  in  a  cnlm,  orderly,  diflind)-  manner,  when  he  bc- 
••  oins  to  be  on  fire  before  his  readers  are  prepared  to  kindle  along  -.vitli  him, 
»'  has  the  appearance  of  raving  like  a  madman  among  pcrfons  who  are  in  their 
*'  fcnfcs,  or  of  reeling  like  a  diiinkaid  in  the  niidit  ot  iober  company." 

'  f  What  perfon  of  the  Icaft  tafte,  can  bear  the  following  pafiage,  ia  a  late 
hiflorian.  Kc  is  giving  an  account  of  the  famous  aeT:  of  parliament  agaiafl 
irregular  marriages  in  EngUnd  :  "The  bill,"  fays  he,  "uiideiwtnt  a  great 
••  number  of  alterations  and  amendments,  whiih  wcrv  not  c ffc(!ted  ^vitiiout  vi- 
"  olcnt  contcfl."  This  is  plain  Langnage,  fuiftd  to  the  fnhj<.(rt ;  and  we  nat- 
urally cxpedl,  that  he  lliould  go  on  in  the  fame  fuaiu,  to  tell  us,  that,  after 
theft' contefts,  it  was  carried  by  a  great  majority  of  voices,  and  obtained  the 
roval  aficnt.  But  how  does  he  exprefs  himfclf  in  finifl-.ing  ih.e  period  ?  ''  At 
••  length,  however,  it  was  floated  throvigh  both  houfes,  on  the  tide  of  a  great 
"  majority,  and  fleered  into  the  fafe  harbour  of  royal  ;,ppr(>bati(;n."  >'.!h- 
ing  can  be  more  puerile  than  Aich  Language.  Smolict's  Hiibry  of  England, 
as  quoted  in  Ciitical  Review  for  Odl.  i76i,p.  3jz. 


tfecT.  XV.         METAPHOR.  213 

The  fecond  rule,  which  I  g'fve,  refpecls  the  choice  of  objeds, 
from  whence  Metaphors,  and  other  figures,  are  to  be  drawn- 
The  field  for  Figurative  Language  is  very  wide.  All  nature, 
to  fpeak  in  the  llyle  of  figures,  opens  its  ilores  to  us,  and  ad- 
fhirs  us  to  gather,  from  all  fenfible  objeds,  whatever  can  il- 
iurtvate  iiitelleQual  or  moral  ideas.  Not  only  the  gay  and  fplon- 
did  objeds  of  fenfe,  but  the  grave,  the  terrifying,  and  even  the 
gloomy  and  difmal,  may,  on  different  occafions,  l)e  introduced 
into  figures  with  propriety.  But  we  muft  beware  of  ever  ufing 
fuch  allufions  as  raife  in  the  lYiind  difagreeable,  mean,  vulgai*, 
or  dirty  idcAs.  Even  wheh  Metaphors  are  chofen  in  order  to 
vilify  and  de^r^de  any  objed,  an  autlior  fliould  ftudy  never  to 
be  naufeous  in  his  allufions.  Cicero  blames  an  oi'ator  of  his 
time,  for  terming  his  eAeftiy  "  Stercus  Curiae ;"  "quamvis  fit 
**  fimile,"  fays  he,  "  tamen  eft  deformis  cogitatib  fimilitudinis." 
But,  in  iubjeds  of  dignity,  it  is  an  unpardonable  fault  to  in-  ♦ 
troduce  mean  and  vulgar  Metaphors.  In  the  treatife  on  the 
Art  of  Sinking,  in  Dean  Swift's  works,  there  is  a  full  and  hu- 
morous colledion  of  inftances  of  this  kind,  wherein  authors, 
inftead  of  exalting,  have  conttived  to  degrade,  their  fubjeds  by 
the  figures  they  employed.  Authors  of  greater  note  than  thofc 
which  are  there  quoted,  have,  at  times,  fallen  into  this  error. 
Archbifiiop  Tillotfon,  for  inftance,  is  fometimes  negligent  in 
his  choice  of  JNJetaphors  ;  as,  when  fpeaking  of  the  day  of  judg- 
ment, he  defcribes  the  w^ovld,  as  "  cracking  about  the  finncrs* 
*'  ears."  Shakefpeare,  whofe  imagination  was  rich  and  bold, 
in  a  much  greater  degree  than  it  was  delicate,  often  fails  here. 
The  following,  for  example,  is  a  grofs  tranfgreflion  ;  in  his 
Henry  V.  having  mentioned  a  dunghill,  he  prefently  raifes  a 
Metaphor  from  the  fi:eam  of  it ;  and  on  a  fubjed  too,  that  nat- 
urally led  to  much  nobler  ideas  :  li 

And  tliofe  that  leave  their  valiant  bones  in  France, 
Dying  like  men,  though  buried  in  your  dungliills, 
They  drill  be  fani'd ;  for  there  the  ilin  nialTgreet  them, 
And  draw  their  honours  reeking  up  to  heaven. 

Ad  IV.  Sc.  8. 

In  the  third  place,  as  ISTetaphors  fiiould  be  drawn  from  objeds 
of  feme  dignity,  fo  particular  care  fliould  be  taken  that  tlic  re- 
fcmblance,  which  is  the  foundation  of  the  Metnplipr,  be  clear 
and  perfpicuous;  not  fur  fetched,  nor  difficult  to  difcover.  ,'  The 

tranfgreflion 


214  METAPHOR.         Lect.XV. 

tranfgreiTion  of  this  rule  makes,  what  arc  called  harfli  or  forced 
IWetaphors,  which  are  always  difpleafing,  becaufe  they  puzzle 
the  reader,  and,  inftead  of  illuftrating  the  thought,  render  it 
perplexed  and  intricate.  \V  ith  Metaphors  of  this  kind,  Cowley 
abounds-  He,  and  fome  of  the  writers  of  his  age,  feem  to 
have  confidered  it  as  the  perfection  of  wit,  to  hit  upon  like- 
nefles  between  objects  which  no  other  perfon  could  have  difcov- 
cred  ;  and,  at  the  fame  time,  to  purfue  thofe  Metaplwrs  fo  far,' 
that  it  requires  fome  ingenuity  to  follow  them  out  and  compre- 
hend them.  This  makes  a  Metaphor  refemble  an  aenigma  ;  and 
is  the  very  reverfe  of  Cicero's  rule  on  this  head  :  "  Vcrecunda 
"  debet  efle  tranflatio  •,  ut  deducta  efle  in  alienum  locum  non 
•*  irruiire,atque  ut  voluntario  non  vi  venifle  videatur."*  How 
forced  and  obfcure,  for  inftance,  are  the  following  verfes  of 
"Cowley,  fpeaking  of  his  miftrefs  : 

Woe  to  her  ftubborn  heart,  if  once  mine  come 
Into  the  felf-lame  room, 
'Twill  tear  and  blow  up  all  within. 
Like  a  granado,  Ihot  into  a  magazine. 
Then  fliall  love  keep  the  afhes  and  torn  parts 
Of  both  our  broken  hearts  ; 
Shall  out  of  both  one  new  one  make  ; 
From  her's  th'  alloy,  from  mine  the  metal  take  ; 
For  of  her  heart,  he  from  the  flames  will  find 
But  little  left  behind  ; 
Mine  only  will  remain  entire, 
Ko  drofs  was  there,  to  perifh  in  the  fire. 

In  this  manner  he  addreffes  fleep  : 

In  vain,  thou  drowfy  god.  I  thee  invoke  ; 
For  thou,  who  doit  from  fumes  arife. 
Thou,  who  man's  foul  dolt  overlhadc. 
With  a  thick  cloud  by  vapours  made  ; 
Canft  have  no  power  to  fhut  liis  eyes, 
Whofe  flame's  fo  pure,  that  it  fends  up  no  fmoke  ; 
Yet  how  do  tears  but  Irc^m  fome  vapours  rife  ? 
Tears  that  bewlnter  all  my  year  ; 
The  fate  oi  Laypt  I  fuflain, 
And  never  feel  the  dew  of  rain, 
From  clouds  which  in  the  head  appear: 
Eut  al!  my  too  much  moilture  owe 
To  overflowings  of  the  heart  below. f 

Trite 

*  "  Every  Metaphor  fnould  be  modefl,  fo  that''jt  may  carry  the  appearance 
"  of  having  been  ltd,  not  of  Jiaving  forced  itfcif  into  tlie  place  of  that  word 
"  whofe  room  it  occupies;  that  it  may  feem  to  have  come  thither  of  its  own 
*  accord,  and  not  by  conftraint."     Dc  Oratore,  L.  III.  c.  53. 

f  5ee  an  excellent  critlcifm  on  this  fort  of  inctaphyQcal  poetry,  m  Dr.  John- 
!bn's  Life  of  Cowley. 


Lect.XV.         metaphor.  215 

Trite  and  common  refemblances  fliould  indeed  be  avoided  In 
our  Metaphors.  To  be  new,  and  not  vulgar,  is  a  beauty.  But 
when  they  are  fetched  from  fome  likenefs  too  remote,  and  ly- 
ing too  far  out  of  the  road  of  ordinary  thought,  then,  bcfides 
their  obfcurity,  they  have  alfo  the  difadvantage  of  appearing  la- 
boured, and,  as  the  French  call  it,  "  recherche  :"  whereas  Met- 
aphor, like  every  other  ornament,  lofes  its  whole  grace,  when 
it  does  not  feem  natural  and  eafy. 

It  is  but  a  bad  and  ungraceful  foftening  which  writers  fome- 
times  life  for  a  harfh  Metaphor,  when  they  palliate  it  with  the 
exprefllon,  as  it  luere.  This  is  but  an  awkward  parenthefis  ; 
and  Metaphors,  which  need  this  apology  of  an  ^j-  it  iverey  had, 
generally,  be  better  omitted.  Metaphors,  too,  borrowed  from 
any  of  the  fciences,  efpecially  fuch  of  them  as  belong  to  par- 
ticular profeffions,  arc  almofi;  always  faulty  by  their  obfcurity. 

In  the  fourth  place,  it  muft  be  carefully  attended  to,  in  the 
condu£l  of  Metaphors,  never  to  jumble  metaphorical  and  plain 
Language  together  ;  never  to  conflrucSI:  a  period  fo,  that  part 
of  it  mull  be  underftood  metaphorically,  part  literally;  which 
always  produces  a  moll  difagreeable  confufion.  Inllances, 
which  are  but  too  frequent,  even  in  good  authors,  will  make 
this  rule,  and  the  reafou  of  it,  be  clearly  underftood.  In  Mr. 
Pope's  tranflation  of  the  Odyfley,  Penelope,  bewailing  the  ab- 
rupt departure  of  her  fon  Telemachus,  is  made  to  fpeak  thus : 

Long  to  my  joys  my  deareft  lord  is  loft, 

His  country's  buckler,  and  the  Grecian  boaft  ; 

Now  from  my  fond  embrace  by  tempeils  torn, 

Our  other  column  of  the  itate  is  borne, 

Nor  took  a  kind  adieu,  nor  fought  confent.*  IV.  962. 

Here,  in  one  line,  her  fon  is  figured  as  a  column  ;  and  in  the 
next,  he  returns  to  be  a  perlon,  to  whom  it  belongs  to  take 
adieu,  and  to  aflc  confent.  This  is  inconfiflent.  The  poet 
fliould  either  have  kept  himfclf  to  tfie  idea  of  a  man,  in  the 
literal  fcnfe  j  or,  if  he  figured  him  by  a  column,  he  Ihould  have 

afcribed 

•  In  the  original,  there  is  no  alluGon  to  a  column,  anJ  the  Metaphor  is 
rightly  fupported  : 

'H  Tfiy  f^w  ■aoo'iv  itr^Ko^  arraXKra,  Bv/m^ioytx 
n«»roi»if  d^TtiTi  KixoKT/^AYOy  tv  Aocvaoim 

Nj»  i'  aw  3-aiJ'  uyxxttln  av«f  ti»^»7»  ^viKhxt 


.^. 


2i<J  M    E    T    A    P    H    O    R.         Lect. 

afcri'oed  nothing  to  him,  but  what  belonged  to  it.  He  was  not 
at  liberty  to  afcrihe  to  that  columii  the  actions  and  properties 
of  a  man.  Such  unnatural  mixtures  render  the  image  indif- 
tinct ;  leaving  it  to  waver,  in  our  conception,  between  the  fig- 
urative and  the  literal  fenfe.  Horace's  rule,  which  he  applies 
to  characters,  fhoukl  be  obferved  by  all  writers  who  deal  in 
Figures  : 

Servetur  ad  imum, 
Qualis  ab  incepto  proceilerit,  et  fibi  conftet. 

Mi%  Pope,  elfewhere,  addreffing  himfelf  to  the  king,  fays, 

To  thee  the  world  its  prcfcnt  homige  pays. 
The  harveit  early,  but  mature  the  praife. 

This,  though  not  fo  grofs,  is  a  fault,  jiowqver,  of  the  fame  Icind. 
It  is  plain,  that,  had  not  the  rhyme  mifled  him  to  the  choice  of 
an  improper  phrafe,  he  would  have  faid. 

The  harveft  early,  but  mature  the  crop  : 

And  fo  would  have  cqutinued  the  figure  which  he  had  begun. 
Whereas,  by  dropping  it  unfinifiicd,  and  by  employing  the  lit- 
eral word,  prai-fe^  when  wc  were  ex:pc£l:ing  fomsthing  that  re- 
lated to  the  harveft,  the  figure  is  broken,  and  the  tv/o  members 
of  tlie  teutence  have  no  proper  correfpoudence  ^vith  each  other  : 

The  harvejl  early,  but  mature  the  pralfi. 

The  works  of  OfTian  abound  with  beautiful  and  correcSl  Met- 
aphors; fuch  as  that  on  a  Jiero  :  "In  peace,  thou  art  the  gate 
*'  of  fpring ;  in  war,  the  mountain  florm."  Or  this,  on  a 
woman  :  **  She  was  covered  with  the  light  of  beauty  j  but  her 
*'  heart  was  the  houfe  of  pride."  They  afford,  however,  one 
inftance  of  the  fault  wc  are  now  ccnfuring  :  "  Trothal  went 
*'  forth  with  the  ftream  of  his  people,  but  they  met  a  rock  :  for 
"  Fingal  ftood  unmoved ;  broken,  they  rolled  back  from  his  fide. 
*'  Nor  did  they  roll  in  fafety  ;  the  fpear  of  the  king  purfued 
**  their  flight."  At  the  beginning,  the  Metaphor  is  very  beau- 
tiful. The  ftream,  the  unmoved  rock,  the  waves  rolling  back 
broken,  are  expreflions  employed  in  the  proper  and  confiftent 
Language  of  Figure  ;  but,  in  the  end,  when  we  are  told,  "  they 
"  did  not  roil  in  fafety,  becaufe  the  fpear  of  the  king  purfued 

"  their 


Lect.XV.         metaphor.  217 

"their  flight,"  the  literal  meaning  is  improperly  mixed  with 
the  Metaphor :  they  are,  at  one  and  the  fame  time,  prefented 
to  us  as  waves  xhzt  roL'y  and  men  that  may  he  purpled  and  wound- 
ed with  a  fi>cnr.  If  it  be  fiiuky  to  jumble  together,  in  this  man- 
ner, metaphorical  and  plain  I/anguage,  it  is  ftill  more  fo, 

In  the  fifth  place,  to  make  two  different  Metaphors  meet,  on 
one  object.  This  is  what  is  called  mixed  Metaphor,  and  is  in- 
deed one  of  the  grofleft  abufes  of  this  Figure  ;  fuch  as  Shake- 
fpeare's  expreflion,  "to  take  arms  againlt  a  fea  of  troubles.'* 
This  makes  a  molt  unnatural  medley,  and  confounds  the  im- 
agination entirely.  Quincilian  has  fufliciently  guarded  us  ngainfl 
it.  "  Id  imprimis  ell  cuftodiendum,  ut  quo  genere  coeperis 
"  tranflationis,  hoc  finias.  Multi  autem  cum  initium  a  tem- 
"  peftatc  fumferunt,  incendio  aut  runia  finiunt  ;  quae  eft  in- 
"  confequentia  rerum  fosdiffima."*  Obferve,  for  inftance,  what 
an  inconfiftent  group  of  objeds  is  brought  together  by  Shake- 
fpeare,  in  the  following  pafluge  of  the  Tempcil ;  fpeaking  of 
perfons  recovering  their  judgment  after  the  enchantment, 
which  held  them,  was  diflblved :  ' 


-The  charm  di/Tolves  apace. 


And  as  the  morning  fteals  upon  the  night 
Melting  thi:  darknefs,  fo  their  rifing  fenfes 
Begin  to  cl:afe  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reafon. 

So  many  ill-forted  things  are  here  joined,  that  the  mind  can  fee 
nothing  clearly  ;  the  morning  Jlealitig  upon  the  darknefs,  and 
at  the  fame  time  meltitig  it  ;  the  fenfes  of  men  ckafmgfumes^ 
igvorant  fumesy  and  jumes  that  mantle.  So  again  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet : 


as  glorious, 


As  is  a  winged  meiTtnger  from  heaven. 

Unto  the  whit-e  upturned  wondering  eyes  \ 

Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him. 

When  he  beftrides  the  lazy  pacing  clouds, 

And  fails  upon  the  bofom  of  the  air. 

Here,  the  angel  is  reprefented,  as,  at  one  moment,  lejlr:ding 
the  clouds,  ^nd.  faUing  upon  the  air  ;  and  upon  the  bofjm  of  the 
E  E  air 

*  "  We  mufl  be  particularly  attentive  to  end  with  the  fame  kind  of  Mcta- 
"  phor  with  which  wc  have  begun.  Some,  when  they  Iicgin  the  liourt  with 
"  .i.  TtmpcfV,  conclude  it  witli  a  conliagration  ;  which  forms  a  lliaincful  in« 
"  conliftency." 


2i8  M    E    T    A    P    11    O    R.       ^Lect.XV. 

tiir  too ;  which  forms  fucli  a  confufed  p'^fture,  that  it  is  im- 
pofTihle  for  any  imagination  to  comprehend  it. 

JNIore  correcl  writers  than  Shakefpeare,  fometimes  fall  into 
this  error  of  mixing  Metaphors.  It  is  furprifing  how  the  fol- 
lowin;^  inaccuracy  fhould  have  eicaped  Mr.  Addifon,  in  his 
Letter  from  Italy  : 

I  bridle  in  my  ftruggling  mufe  with  pain. 
That  longs  to  launch  into  a  bolder  ijrain.* 

The  mufe,  figured  as  a  horfe,  may  be  bridled  ;  but  when  wc 
fpeak  of  launcbingy  we  make  it  a  fiiip  ;  and,  by  no  force  of 
imagination,  can  it  be  fuppofed  both  a  horfe  and  a  fliip  at  one 
moment  j  bridled,  to  hinder  it  from  launching.  The  fame 
author,  in  one  of  his  numbers  in  the  Spectator,  fays,  "  There 
•'  is  not  a  fingle  view  of  human  nature,  which  is  not  fufficient 
**  to  extinguilh  the  feeds  of  pride."  Obferve  the  incoherence 
of  the  things  here  joined  together,  making  "  a  view  extinguilh, 
•*  and  extinguilh  feeds." 

Horace  alfo,  is  incorrect,  in  the  following  paflage  : 

Unit  enlm  fu!gore  fiio  qui  prjcgravat  artes 
Infra  fe  pofitas. 

Urit  qui  pragravat.  He  dazzles  who  bears  down  with  his 
weight  i  makes  plainly  an  inconfiitent  mixture  of  metaphorical 
ideas.     Neither  can  this  other  pallage  be  altogether  vindicated  : 

Ah  !  quanta  laHoras  in  Charybdi, 
Digne  puer  meliore  llamma  ! 

Where  a  whirlpool  of  water,  Charybdis,  is  fald  to  be  a  flame, 
not  good  enough  for  this  young  man ;  meaning  that  he  was 
unfortunate  in  the  obje£l  of  his  pallion.  Flame  is,  indeed,  be- 
come almofl:  a  literal  word  for  the  paflion  of  love  ;  but  as  it  ftill 
retains,  in  fome  degree,  its  figurative  power,  it  fhould  never 
have  oeen  ufed  as  fynoni.nous  with  water,  and  mixed  with  it 
in  the  fame  Metaphor.  When  Mr.  Pope  (Eloifa  to  Abelard) 
fays, 

A'l  then  is  full,  pofTeffing  and  pofTeft, 
Kg  craving  void  left  uking  in  the  breaft ; 

A  void 

*  In  my  obfervation  on  this  paflage,  I  find  that  I  had  coincided  with  Or< 
Johnl'oD,  who  pafTcs  u  iimii^ir  ceni'ure  upoa  it>  in  his  Ufc  uf  Acldii'ou. 


Lect.XV.         metaphor.  21^ 

A  void  may,  metaphorically,  be  faid  to  crave ;  but  can  a  void 
be  faid  to  ake  ? 

A  good  rule  has  been  given  for  examining  the  propriety  of 
Metaphors,  when  we  doubt  whether  or  not  they  be  of  the  mix- 
ed kind;  namely,  that  we  fliould  try  to  form  a  pi6lure  upon 
them,  and  confider  how  the  parts  would  agree,  and  what  fort 
of  figure  the  whole  would  prefent,  when  deluicated  -with  a  pen- 
cil. vl3y  this  means,  wc  (hould  become  fenfible,  whether  incon- 
fiftent  circumftanccs  were  mixed,  and  a  monftrous  image  there- 
by produced,  as  in  all  thofe  faulty  inilances  I  have  now  been 
giving  ;  or  whether  the  objeft  was,  all  along,  prefented  in  one 
natural  and  confident  point  of  view. 

As  Metaphors  ought  never  to  be  mixed,  fo,  in  the  fixth 
place,  we  (hould  avoid  crowding  them  together  on  the  fame 
fubje£l.  Suppofing  each  of  the  Metaphors  to  be  preferved 
diilinQ,  yet,  if  they  heaped  on  one  another,  they  produce  a 
confufion  fomewhat  of  the  fame  kind  with  the  mixed  Metaphor. 
We  may  judge  of  this  by  the  following  pafiage  from  Horace : 

Motum  ex  Metello  confule  civicum, 
Cellique  caulas,  et  vitia,  et  inodos, 

Luduniqiie  fortunx,  gravcfque 

Principuni  amicitias,  ii  arma 
Nond4.im  expiatis  unfhi  cruoribus,- 
Peiiculofx  plenum  opus  alesj, 

Tra(ftas,  et  incedis  per  ignes 

Suppofitos  cineri  dolofo.*  Lib.  a.  I. 

This  palTage,  though  very  poetical,  is,  however,  harlh  and 
obfcure  ;  owing  to  no  other  caufe  but  this,  that  three  diflinft 
Metaphors  are  crowded  together,  to  defcribe  the  difficulty  of 
Foiiio's  writing  a  hiftory  of  the  civil  wars.     Firft,  "  Tra^las  ai- 

"  ma 

•  Of  warm  coniinotions,  wrntHfisl  jirs,. 

Tl\e  growinj^  feeds  of  civil  war.?  ; 

Of  double  fortune's  cruel  gimcs. 

The  fpecious  means,  the  private  aims, 
And  fatal  fricndfljips  of  the  guilty  great,. 
Al.is !  liovv  fatal  to  the  Roman  flatc  ! 

Of  mighty  legions  late  fubdu'd. 

And  arms  with  Lariaii  blood  cmbru'd  ; 

Yit  unaton'd  (a  labour  vafV ! 

Doubtful  the  die,  and  dire  the  cafl !) 
You  treat  adventurous,  and  incautious  tread 
Oil  fires  with  faithicfs  embers  ovcrfpread. 

Franci», 


220  M    E    T    A    P    H    O    R.         Lect.  XV. 

"  ma  unc^a  cruorlbus  nondum  expiatis  ;"  next,  "  Opus  plenum 
*'  periculora;  alcK  j"   and  then  ;  *'  Inccdis  per  ignes  fuppofitos    . 
**dolofo  cineri."     The  mind  has  ditBculty   in   paffing  readily 
througli  fo  many  different  views  given  it,  in  quick  fuccellion, 
of  the  fame  objeQ. 
I         The  only  other  rule   concerning   Metaphors  which  I   fhall 
t     add,  in  the  feventh  place,  is,  that  tliey  be  not  too  far  purfued.    f 
If  the  refcmblance,   on   which  the  figure  is  founded,  be  long 
dwelt  upon,   and  carried   into    all   its  minute   circumftances, 
we  make  an  Allegory  inflead  of  a  Metaphor  ;  we  tire  the  read- 
er, who  foon  wearies  of  this   play   of  fancy ;  and  we  render 
our  difcourfe  obfcure.     This  is  called,  ilraining  a  Metaphor. 
Cowley  deals  in  this  to  excefs ;  and  to  tliis  error  is  owing,  in 
a  great  meafure,  that  intricacy  and  harflmefs,  in  his  figurative 
language,  which  I  before  remarked.    Lord  Shaftefbury  is  fome- 
times  guilty  of  purfuing   his   Metaphors   too  far.     Fond,  to  a 
high  degree,  of  every  decoration  of  ityle,  when  once  he  had  hit 
upon  a  figure  that  pleafed  him,  he  was  extremely  loth  to  part 
with  it.     Thus,  in  his  advice  to  an  author,  having  taken  up  fo- 
liloquy,  or  meditation,  under  tl\e  Metaphor  of  a  proper  method 
of  evacuation  for  an  author,  he  purfues  this  Metaphor  through 
feveral  pages,  under  all  the   forms   "of  discharging  crudities, 
"  throwing  off  froth  and  fcum,  bodily  operation,  taking  phyfic,    ' 
**  curing   indigeftion,  giving  vent  to  choler,   bile,  tiatulencies, 
**  and  tumours  ;"  till  at  laft,  the  idea  becomes  naufeous.     Dr. 
Young  alfo  often  trefpnfles  in  the  fame  way.     The  merit,  how- 
ever, of  this  writer,  in  figurative   language,   is  great,   and  de- 
ferves  to  be  remarked.      No  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  had  a 
ftronger   imagination  than  Dr.  Young,  or  one   more  fertile 
in   figures  of  every  kind.      His  Metaphors    are    often    new, 
and    often   natural   and   beautiful.      But,   as  his  imagination 
was    ftrong   and  rich,   rather  than  delicate  and   corretl,   he 
fometimes  gives   it  too   loofe   reins.      Hence,   in  his    Night 
Thoughts,   there   prevails  an  obfcurity,  and   a  hardnefs  in  his 
ftyle.     The  Metaphors  are  frequently  too  bold,  and  frequently 
too  far  purfued ;  the  reader  is  dazzled,  rather  than  enlighten- 
ed ;  and  kept  conftantly  on  the  ftretch  to  ccmprehcnd,  and  keep 
pace  with  the  author.     "VVe  may  obfcrve,  for  inllance,  how  the 
following  Metaphor  is  fpun  out : 

Thy 


■m 


Lect.XV.         allegory.  i2i 

Thy  thougl.ts  arc  vagabonds ;  all  outward  bound, 
Midll:  lands  and  rocks,  and  llorms,  to  cruife  for  pleafure  j 
]f  gain'd,  dear  bought ;  and  better  inifs'd  than  jjain'd. 
Fancy  and  fenfc,  tioin  an  infcdedfhore. 
Thy  cargo  brings  ;  and  peililence  the  prize  ; 
Then  I'uch  the  thiril,  infatiable  thirft, 
By  fond  indulgence  bnt  inflam'd  the  more, 
Fancy  ftill  cruilcs,  when  poorlcnfe  h  tir'd. 

Speaking  of  old  age,  he  fays,  it  fnouM 

Walk  thoughtful  on  the  fdcnt  folemn  fiiore 
Of  that  vait  ocean,  it  niuft  fail  {o  foon  ; 
And  put  good  works  on  board  ;  and  wait  the  wind 
Thatflioitiy  blows  us  into  woilds  unknown. 

The  two  firft  lines  are  uncommonly  beautiful;  '^'wallc 
*'  thoughtful  on  the  filent,  &c."  but  when  he  continues  the 
Metaphor,  "  to  putting  good  works  on  board,  and  waiting  the 
**  wind,"  it  plainly  becomes  flrained,  and  finks  in  dignity.  Of 
all  the  Engliih  autliors,  I  know  none  fo  happy  in  his  Metaphors 
as  Mr.  Addifon.  His  imagination  was  neither  fo  rich  nor 
fo  ftrong  as  Dr.  Young's ;  but  far  more  chafte  and  delicate, 
Pcrfpicuity,  natural  grace  and  eafe,  always  diftmguiih  his  fig- 
ures. They  are  neither  harfii  nor  flrained  ;  they  never  appear 
to  have  been  ftudied  or  fouglit  after ;  but  feem  to  rife  of  their 
own  accord  from  the  fubje£l:,  and  conflantly  embcllifli  It. 

I  have  now  treated  fully  of  the  Metaphor,  and  the  rules  that 
fliould  govern  it,  a  part  of  the  do(Slrine  of  (lyle  fo  Important, 
that  it  required  particular  illuflration.  I  have  only  to  add  a 
few  words  concerning  Allegory. 

An  Allegory  may  be  regarded  as  a  continued  Metaphor  ;  as  it 
is  the  repi-efentation  of  feme  one  thing  by  another  that  rcfcmbles 
it,  and  that  is  made  to  fland  for  It.  Thus,  in  Prior's  Henry  and 
Emma,  Emma  In  the  following  allegorical  noanner  defcribes  her 
conftancy  to  Henry : 

Did  I  but  purpofe  to  embark  with  thee 
On  the  fnioorh  liiifacc  of  a  fumnier's  fca, 
"While  gentle  zephyrs  play  with  profperous  gales, 
And  fortune's  favour  fills  the  fwelling  lails; 
Put  would  foilake  the  ihip,  and  make  the  Ihore, 
When  the  winds  whiftlc,  and  the  tcmpefts  roar  ? 

We  may  take  alfo  from  tlic  fcripturcs  a  very  fine  example  of  an 
Allegory,  in  the  8cth  Ffalm  ;  where  the  people  of  Ifrael  arc 

xcprcfcnteJ 


122  ALLEGORY.  Lect.XV. 

reprefented  under  the  imnge  of  a  vine,  rnd  the  figure  is  fupport- 
ed  throughout  vith  great  corrcdnefs  and  bev.uty ;  "'il;ou 
"  haft  brought  a  vine  out  of  Egypt,  thou  haft  caft  out  the  hea- 
'*  then,  and  planted  it.  Thou  prcparedft  room  before  it,  and 
•*uidft  caufe  it  to  take  deep  root,  and  it  filled  the  land.  The 
*'  hills  were  covered  with  the  ftiadow  of  it ;  and  the  bough* 
*'  thereof  were  like  the  goodly  cedars.  She  fent  out  her  boughs 
**  into  the  fea,  and  her  branches  into  the  river.  Why  haft  thoa 
"  broken  down  her  hedges,  fo  that  all  they  which  pafs  by  the 
**  way  do  pluck  her  ?  The  boar  cat  of  the  wood  doth  wnfte  it  j 
"  and  the  v\ijd  be?ft  of  the  field  doth  devour  it.  Return,  we 
"bcfeech  thee,  O  God  of  Hofts,  look  down  from  heaven,  and 
•*  behold,  and  vifit  this  vine  !"  Here  there  is  no  circumftance, 
(except  perhaps  one  phrafe  at  the  beginning,  *'  thou  haft  caft 
"  out  the  heathen")  that  does  not  ftriftly  agree  to  a  vine,  whilft» 
St  the  fame  time,  the  whole  quadrates  happily  with  the  Jcwifti 
flate  reprcfented  by  this  figure.  This  is  the  firft  and  principal 
requifite  in  the  conduct  of  an  Allegory,  that  the  figurative 
and  the  literal  meaning  be. not  mixed  inconliftently  together. 
For  inftance,  inftead  of  defcribing  the  vine,  as  wafted  by 
the  boar  from  the  wood,  and  devoured  by  the  wild  beaft  of 
the  field,  had  the  Pfalmift  faid,  it  was  afflifted  by  heathens,  or 
overcome  by  enemies,  (which  is  tlie  real  meaning)  this  would 
Iiave  ruined  the  Allegory,  and  produced  the  fame  ccnfufion,  of 
which  I  gave  examples  iu  Metaphors,  when  the  figurative  and 
literal  fenfe  are  mixed  and  jumbled  together.  Indeed,  the  fame 
Tules  that  were  given  for  Metaphors,  may  alfo  be  applied  to  Al- 
>•  legories,  on  account  of  the  afiinity  they  bear  to  eacli  other.  The 
*  only  material  diiference  between  them,  bcfidcs  the  one  being 
fhort,  and  the  other  being  prolonged,  is,  that  a  Metaphor  always 
explains  itfclf  by  the  words  that  are  conne£lcd  with  it  in  their 
proper  and  natural  meaning  ;  as  when  I  fay,  "  Achilles  was  a 
"  lion  ;"  an  "  able  minifter  is  the  pillar  of  the  ftate."  My  lion 
and  my  pillar  arc  fufhciently  interpreted  by  the  mention  of 
Achilles  and  the  minifter,  v.hich  I  mean  to  join  to  them ;  but 
an  Allegory  is,  or  may  be,  allowed  to  ftand  more  difconne£led 
with  the  literal  meaning ;  the  interpretation  not  fo  diredly 
pointed  out,  but  hit  to  oui  own  rcfledioii* 

Allegories 


Lect.XV.  allegory.  223 

Allegories  were  a  favourite  method  of  delivering  inftxu^lions 
In  ancient  times ;  for  what  we  call  fables  or  parables  are  no 
other  than  Allegories ;  where,  by  words  and  anions  attributed 
to  beails  or  inanimate  objed'ls,  the  difpofitions  of  men  are  figur- 
ed ;  and  what  wc  call  the  moral,  is  the  unfigured  (cnCc  or  mean- 
ing of  the  Allegory.  An  senigmaor  riddle  is  alfo  a  fpecies  «£ 
Allegory;  one  thing  reprefented  or  imaged  by  another;  but  pur- 
pofely  wrapt  up  under  fo  many  circumltanccs,  as  to  be  render- 
ed obfcure.  Where  a  riddle  is  not  intended,  it  is  always  a 
fault  in  Allegory  to  be  too  darL  The  meaning  fhould  be  eafi- 
ly  feen  through  tlie  figure  employed  to  fhadow  it.  However, 
the  proper  mixture  of  light  and  fhade  in  fuch  compofitions, 
the  exa£l  adjullment  of  all  the  figurative  circumilances  with 
the  literal  fenfe,  fo  as  neither  to  lay  the  meaning  too  bare  and 
open,  nor  to  cover  and  wrap  it  up  too  much,  has  ever  been 
found  an  affair  of  great  nicety  ;  and  there  are  few  fpecies  of 
compofition  in  which  it  is  more  difficult  to  write  fo  as  to  pleafe 
and  command  attention,  than  in  Allegories.  In  fome  of  the 
vifions  of  the  Spe<ftator,  we  have  examples  of  Allegories  very 
happily  executed. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        XVI. 

HYPERBOLE.    PERSONIFICATION.    APOSTROPHE. 

X  HE  next  Figure  concerning  which  I  am  to  treat,  is 
called  Hyperbole,  or  Exaggeration.  It  confifls  in  magnifying 
an  object  beyond  its  natural  bounds.  '  It  may  be  confidered 
fom.etimes  as  a  trope,  and  fometimes  as  a  figure  of  thought : 
and  here  indeed  the  diRintlion  between  thcfe  two  clafles  be- 
gins not  to  be  clear,  nor  is  it  of  any  importance  that  we  fhould 
have  recourfe  to  metaphyfical  fubtikies,  in  order  to  keep  them 
<.lifl;in£l.  Whether  we  call  it  trope  or  figure,  it  is  plain  that 
it  is  a  mode  of  fpeech  which  hath  fome  foundation  in  nature. 
For  in  all  Languages,  even  in  common  converfation,  hyperbol- 
ical expreflions  very  frequently  occur;  as  fwift  as  the  wind  ; 
as  white  as  the  fnow,  and  the  like  ;  and  our  common  forms  of 
compliment  are  almoft  all  of  tliem  extravagant  Hyperboles.  If 
any  thing  be  remarkably  good  or  great  in  its  kind,  we  are  in- 
ftantly  ready  to  add  to  it  fome  exaggerating  epithet  ;  and  to 
make  it  the  greatefl  or  beft  we  ever  faw.  The  imagination  has 
always  a  tendency  to  gratify  itfelf,  by  magnifying  its  prefent 
obje£l,  and  carrying  it  to  excefs.  More  or  lefs  of  this  hyper- 
bolical turn  will  prevail  in  language,  according  to  the  livelincfs 
of  imagination  among  the  people  who  fpeak  it.  Hence  young 
people  deal  always  much  in  Flyperboles.  Hence  the  language 
of  the  Orientals  was  far  more  hyperbolical  than  that  of  the  Eu- 
ropeans, who  are  of  more  phlegmatic,  or  if  you  pleafe,  of  more 
correal  imagination.  Hence,  among  all  writers  in  early  times, 
and  in  the  rude  periods  of  fociety,  we  may  expe£l  this  figure  to 
abound.  Greater  experience,  and  more  cultivated  fociety, 
abate  the  warmth  of  imagination,  and  chaften  the  manner  of 
exprcfuon. 

The  exaggerated  expreflions  to  which  our  ears   are  accuf- 
tomcd  in  converfation,  fcarcely  ftrike  us  as  Hyperboles.  \  In 

an 


liECT.XYI.  liT  PER  BOLE.  22^ 

an  inftant  we  make  the  proper  abatement,  and  unclerftand  them 
according  to  their  juft  value.  But  when  there  is  fomething 
ftriking  and  unufu.il  in  the  form  of  a  hyperbolical  exprefllon, 
it  then  fifes  into  a  figure  of  fpccch  which  draws  our  attention  : 
and  here  it  is  necefiary  to  obferve,  that,  unlefs  the  reader's 
iiViagination  be  in  fuch  a  ftate  as  difpofes  it  to  rife  and  fwell 
along  with  the  hyperboncal  expreffion,  he  is  always  hurt  and 
offended  by  it.  For  a  fort  of  difagreeable  force  is  put  upon 
him  ;  he  is  required  to  drain  and  exert  his  fancy,  when  he 
feels  no  inclination  to  make  any  fuch  effort.  Hence  the  Hy- 
perbole is ;'.  iip-ure  of  difficult  management ;  and  ought  neither 
to  be  frequently  ufed,  nor  long  dwelt  upon.  On  feme  occa- 
sions, it'is  undoubtedly  proper  ;  being,  as  was  before  obferved, 
the  natural  (lyle  of  a  fprightly  and  heated  imagination,  but 
■when  Hyperboles  are  uafeafonabb^  or  too  frequent,  they  ren- 
der a  compofition  frigid  and  ujiaffccling.  They  are  the  rc- 
fource  of  an  author  of  feeble  imagination  ;  of  one,  defcribing 
objeifks  which  either  want  native  dignity  in  thtmfelves ;  or 
whofe  dignity  he  cannot  (how  by  defcribing  then  fimply,  and 
in  their  jull  proportions,  and  is  therefore  obliged  to  refl:  upon 
tumid  and  exaggerated  expreffions. 

Hyperboles  are  of  two  kinds  ;  either  fuch  as  are  employed 
in  defcription,  or  fuch  as  are  fugge(ledj?y  the  warmth  of  paf- 
fion.  The  bcfi,  by  far,  are  thofe  wliich  are  the  effedl  of  paf- 
Con  :  for  if  tiie  imagination  has  a  tendency  to  magnify  its  ob- 
jedls  beyond  their  natural  proportion,  paffion  poffeffcs  this 
tendency  in  a  v.iftly  {j:ronger  degree  •,  and  therefore  not  only 
cxcufes  the  mod  daring  figures,  but  very  often  renders  them 
natuTOTand  ju(t.  All  paiTions,  without  exception,  love,  terror, 
amazement,  indignation,  jft^ger,  and  even  grief,  throw  the  mind 
into  confufion,  aggravate  their  objects,  and  of  courfe,  prompt  a 
hyperbolical  ilyle.  \  Hence  the  following  fentiments  of  Satan  in 
Ivlilton,  as  ftrongly  as  they  arc  defcrlbed,  contain  nothing  but 
what  is  natural  and  proper ;  exhibiting  the  pidlure  of  a  mind' 
agitated  with  rage  and  dcfpair. 

Me  mifei  able  !  which  v/ay  fliajl  T  fly 

Infinite  wrath,  and  infinite  defpair  i* 

Wliich  v^ay  I  fiy  is  hell,  niyfelf  am  hell  ; 

And  in  the  lov/ctl  depth,  a  lower  deep 

Still  threat'ning  to  devour  mc,  opens  wide, 

To  which  the  hell  I  lufftr  fecini  a  hcuveu.  B.  'lY'  I.  7J. 


t2i  HYPERBOLE.  Lect.  XVI. 

In  fimplc  defcrlptlon,  though  Hyperboles  are  not  excluded, 
yet  they  muft  be  ufcd  with  more  caution,  and  require  more 
pr<^paration,  in  order  to  make  the  mind  relifh  them.  Either 
the  object  defcribed  mtsft  be  of  that  kind,  whichof  itfelf  feizes 
the  fancy  (Irongly,  and  difpofes  it  to  run  beyond  bounds  ;  fome- 
thing  vaft,  furprifing,  and  new  ;  or  the  writer's  art  muft  be 
exerted  in  heating  the  fancy  gradually,  and  preparing  it  to 
think  highly  of  the  object  which  he  intends  to  exaggerate. 
When  a  poet  is  defcribing  an  earthquake  or  a  florni,  or  when 
he  has  brought  us  into  the  midft  of  a  battle,  we  can  bear  ftrong 
Hyperboles  without  difpleafure.  But  when  he  is  defcribing 
only  a  woman  in  grief,  it  is  impoflible  not  to  be  difgufted  with 
fuch  wild  exaggeration  as  the  following,  in  one  of  our  dramatic 
poets  : 

■        1  found  her  on  the  floor 

In  all  the  llorm  of  grief,  yet  beautiful  ; 

Pouring  forth  tears  at  fuch  a  lavifli  rate, 

That  were  the  world  on  fire,  they  might  have  drown'd 

The  wrath  of  Heaven,  and  quench'd  the  mighty  ruin.        Lee. 

This  is  mere  bombaft.  The  perfon  herfelf  who  is  under 
the  diftrafting  agitations  of  grief,  might  be  permitted  to  hy- 
perbolize ftrongly  ;  but  the  fpe<Sfator  defcribing  her,  cannot 
be  allowed  an  equal  liberty  :  for  this  plain  reafon,  that  the  one 
is  fuppofed  to  utter  the  fentiments  of  paffion,  the  other  fpeaks 
only  the  language  of  defcription,  which  is  always,  according 
to  the  dictates  of  nature,  on  a  lower  tone  :  a  diftintSbion,  which, 
however  obvious,  has  not  been   attended  to  by  many  writers. 

How  far  a  Hyperbole,  fuppofing  it  properly  introduced,  inay 
be  fafely  carried  without  overllretching  it  j  what  is  the  proper 
meafure  and  boundary  of  this  figure-,  cannot,  as  far  as  I  know, 
be  afcertained  by  any  precife  rule.  Good  fcufe  and  juft  tafte 
muft  determine  the  point,  beyond  which,  if  we  pafs,  we  be- 
come extravagant.  Lucan  may  be  pointed  out  as  an  author 
apt  to  be  exceHive  in  his  Hyperboles.  Among  the  compli- 
ments paid  by  the  Roman  poets  to  their  Emperors,  it  had  be- 
come fafhionable  to  alk  them,  What  part  of  the  heavens  they- 
would  choofe  for  their  habitation,  after  they  (liould  have  become 
gods  ?    Virgil  had   already  carried  this  fuiTiciently  far  in  his 

addrefs  to  Auguftus  ; 

^— Tibi 


Iect.  XVI.  hyperbole.  227 

— — Tibi  brachia  contrahit  ingcns 

Scorpius,  &  CcelijulU  plus  parte  rclinquit.*  Georg.  I. 

But  this  did  not  fuffioe  Lucan.  Refolved  to  outdo  all  his  pre- 
decefTors,  in  a  like  addrefs  to  Nero,  he  very  gravely  befeechcs 
him  not  to  choofe  his  place  near  either  of  the  poles,  but  to  be 
fure  to  occupy  juft  the  middle  of  the  heavens,  left,  by  going 
either  to  one  fide  or  the  other,  his  weight  lliould  overfet  th« 
univerfe : 

Sed  Deque  in  Arftoo  fcdem  tibi  Icgeris  orbe, 

Nee  polus  r.dveifi  calidus  qua  mergitur  aultrl ; 

JEtheris  immenfi  paitcm  fi  preflens  unara 

Sentiet  axis  onus,    Libi  ati  pondera  Coeli 

Orbe  tene  medio. f Phars.  I.  ^^. 

Such  thoughts  as  thefe,  are  what  the  French  call  ouiresj  and 
always  proceed  from  a  falfe  fire  of  genius.  The  Spanifh  and 
African  writers,  as  Tertullian,  Cyprian,  Auguftin,  are  remark- 
ed for  being  fond  of  them.  As  in  that  Epitaph  on  Charles  V. 
by  a  Spanilli  writer  : 

Pro  tutnulo  ponas  ovbem  pro  tcgmine  cccliim, 
Sidera  pro  fiicibus,  pro  lacrymis  niaria. 

Sometimes  they  da2zle  and  impofe  by  their  boldnefs;  but  where- 
ever  reafon  and  good  fenfe  are  fo  much  violated,  there  can  be 
no  true  beauty.  Epigrammatic  writers  are  frequently  guilty  in 
this  refpeftj  reftlng  the  whole  merit  of  their  epigrams  on  fome 
extravagant  hyperbolical  turn  ;  fuch  as  the  following  of  Dr. 
Pitcairn's,  upon  Holland's  being  gained  from  the  ocean : 

Tcllurem  fecere  Dii ;  fua  littora  Eelgre  ;' 
Atqiie  opus  immenfe  molis  utrunique  tuit ; 
Dii  vacuo  Iparfas  giomerarunt  artlicra  terras,. 

Nil  ibi  quod  aperi  pofHt  obciTe  fxat. 
At  relgT%  maria  &  cceti  naturaquc  rcrum 
Obltitit ;  obftantes  hi  doniucre  DeoSv 

So 

*  "  The  Scorpion,  ready  to  receive  thy  Iaw3, 
*'  Yields  hah'  his  region,  and  contradts  his  paw*.""         DrybbiV* 

f  But,  oh  !  whatever  be  thy  j^odhead  great. 
Fix  not  in  regions  too  remote  thy  feat ; 
Not  deign  tliou  near  the  frozen  bear  to  Hiine, 
Nor  where  the  fultry  fouthcrn  flars  decline. 
Prcfs  not  too  much  on  any  p.irt  the  Iphcrc, 
H.<rd  were  the  talk  thy  wpijrht  divine  to  bear  5 
Soon  would  the  axis  IctI  th'  unufiial  load, 
And,  t;roaning,  bdtid  bcncHth  th'  incumbent  god  j 
O'er  the  mid  orb  more  equal  llialt  thou  rife, 
u&nd  with  a  juflcf  balauce  lix  the  Ikics*  Rowe; 


528  PERSONIFICATION.  Lect.XVL 

So  much  for  tae  Hyperbole.  "We  proceed  now  to  thofe  figures 
•which  He  altogether  in  the.  thought  j  where  the  words  are  taken 
in  their  common  and  literal  fenfc. 

Among  thefe,  the  Erft  place  is.  unqueRionably  due  to  Pcr- 
fonification,  or  that  figure  by  which  we  attribute  life  and  aclion 
to  inanimate  objecis.  /  The  technical  term  for  this  is  Frofopo- 
pceia  ;  but  as  Pcrfonification  is  of  the  fame  import,  and  more 
allied  to  our  own  language,  it  will  be  better  to  ufc  this  word. 
It  is  a  figure,  the  ufe  of  which  is  very  extenfive,  and  its  foun- 
dation laid  deep  in  humin  nature.  At  firfl  view,  and  when  con- 
fidcred  abflradHv)  It  would  appear  to  be  a  figure  of  the  urmoft 
boldnefs,  and  to  border  upon  the  extravagant  and  ridiculous. 
For  what  can  fccm  more  remote  from  the  track  of  rcafonable 
thought,  than  to  fpeak  of  Hones  and  trees,  and  fields  and  rivers, 
as  if  they  were  living  creatures,  and  to  attribute  to  them 
thought  and  fenfation,  aflcdlions  and  adions  ?  One  might  im- 
agine this  to  be  no  more  than  cliildilh  conceit,  which  no  perfon 
of  tafle  could  reliih.  In  fa6l,  however,  the  cafe  is  very  diiierenSi 
No  fuch  ridiculous  efFe6l  is  produced  by  Pcrfonification,  when 
properly  employed  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  found  to  be  natural 
and  agreeable  ;  nor  is  any  very  uncommon  degree  of  pafilon  re« 
quired,  in  order  to  make  U'j  relifh  it.  All  poetry,  even  in  its  moil 
gentle  and  humble  forms,  abounds  witli  it.  From  profe,  it  is 
far  from  being  excluded  ;  nay,  in  common  converfition,  very 
frequent  approaches  are  msde  to  it.  Whtn  we  fay,  the  ground 
ihirjis  for  rain,  or  the  e?.\\\\  f miles  wath  plenty  ;  when  we  fpeak 
of  ambition's  being  rcjllejs^  or  a  difeafe  being  deceitful^  fuch 
exprcfiions  fhow  the  facility  with  which  the  mind  can  accom- 
modate the  properties  of  living  creatures  to  things  that  are 
inanimate,  or  to  abflrafi:  conceptions  of  its  OM^n  forming. 

Indeed,  it  is  very  remarkable,  that  there  is  a  wonderful  pronc- 
refs  in  human  nature  to  animate  all  objeOs. ;'  V/hether  this 
arifes  fioni  a  fort  of  aflimilating  principle,  from  a  pppcnfion 
to  fpread  a  refeniblance  of  ouvfclves  over  all  other  things,  or 
from  whatever  other  caufeit  arifes,  fo  it  is,  that  alinoil  et^ery  emo- 
,  tion,  w  hich  in  the  leafl  agitates  the  mind,  beftows  upon  its  object 
a  momentary  idea  of  life.  Let  a  man,  by  an  unwary  flcp, 
fprain  his  ankle,  or  hurt  his  foot  upon  a  ftone,  ami,  in  the  ruffled 
difcompofed  moment,  he  will,  fcmetimes,  ieclhimfelf  difpofed 

*  to 


Lect.xvi.       personification.  ^29 

to  break  the  flone  in  pieces,  or  to  utter  paffionate  cxprcffions 
againll  it,  as  if  it  had  done  hiin  an  injury.  If  one  has  been 
long  accuilomed  to  a  certain  fet  of  objedls,  which  have  made 
a  flrong  imprcirion  on  his  imagination  ;  as  to  a  houfe  where 
he  has  palled  many  agreeable  years  j  or  to  fieUla,  and  trees,  and 
mountains,  among  which  he  has  often  walked  witli  the  greateft 
delight  j  when  he  is  obliged  to  part  with  them,  efpecially  if  he 
has  no  profpc6t  of  ever  feeing  tlvem  again,  he  can  fcarce  avoid 
having  fomewhat  of  the  fame  feeling  as  when  he  is  leaving  old 
friends.  They  feem  endowed  with  life.  Tliey  become  obje£l5 
of  his  aiFccliun  ;  and  in  the  moment  of  his  parting,  it  fcarce 
feems  abfurd  to  him,  to  give  vent  to  his  feeling  in  words,  and 
to  make  a  formal  adieu. 

So  ftrong  is  that  impreflion  of  life  which  is  made  upon  us, 
by  the  more  magnificent  and  llriking  obje6ts  of  nature  elpeciai- 
ly,  that  I  doubt  not,  in  the  leafl,  of  this  having  been  one  caufc 
of  the  multiplication  of  divinities  in  the  heathen  world.  Dry- 
ads and  Naiads,  the  genius  of  the  wood,  and  the  god  of  the 
river,  were,  in  men  of  lively  imaginations,  in  the  early  ages  of 
the  world,  eafily  grafted  upon  this  turn  of  mind.  When  their 
favourite  rural  objedls  had  often  been  animated  in  their  fancy, 
it  was  an  eafy  tranfition  to  attribute  to  thetn  fomc  real  divinity, 
fwme  unfiien  power  or  genius  which  inhabited  them,  or  in  forac 
peculiar  manner  belonged  to  them.  Imagination  was  highly  grat- 
ified, by  thus  gaining  fomewhat  to  reft  upon  with  more  liabili- 
ty ;  and  when  belief  coincided  fo  much  with  imagination,  very 
flight  caufes  would  be  fufficient  to  eftablifli  it. 

From  this  dedu£lion,  may  be  eafily  feen  how  it  comes  to 
pafs,  thatPerfonification  makes  fo  great  a  figure  in  all  compofi- 
tions,  where  imagination  or  paffion  have  any  concern.  On 
innumerable  occafions,  it  is  the  very  language  of  imagination 
and  paiiion,  and,  therefore,  dcfcrves  to  be  attended  to,  and  ex- 
amined with  peculiar  care.  There  are  three  dilFerent  degrees 
of  this  figure  ;  which  it  is  neceiTary  to  remark  and  diftinguifli, 
in  order  to  determine  the  propriety  of  its  ufc.  The  firll  is, 
when  fomc  of  the  properties  or  qualities  of  living  creatures  are 
afcribed  to  inanimate  cbjeds  *,  the  fecond,  wlien  thofc  inanimate 
objcfls  arc  introduced  as  ailing  like  fuch  as  have  life  ;  and  the 
third,  when  they  are  reprefented,  either  as  fpeaking  to  us,  or 
as  liftenijig  to  what  we  fay  to  thera. 

The 


230  PERSONIFICATION.  Lect.XVI. 

The  firft,  nnd  lowefh  degree  of  this  figure,  confids  ui  afcrib- 
ing  to  inanimate  objedls  fomc  of  the  quahties  of  living  crea- 
tures. "Where  this  is  done,  as  is  moll  commonly  the  cafe,  in 
a  word  or  two,  and  by  way  of  an  epithet  added  to  the  obje£l, 
as,  "  a  raging  ftorm,  a  deceitful  difeafe,  a  cruel  difaller," 
fire,  it  raifes  the  flyle  fo  little,  that  the  humblell  difcourfe  will 
admit  it  without  any  force.  This,  indeed,  is  fuch  an  obfcurc 
degree  of  Perfonification,  that  one  may  doubt  whether  it  de- 
ferves  the  name,  and  might  not  be  clalTcd  with  fimple  meta- 
phors, which  efcape  in  a  manner  unnoticed.  .  Happily  employ- 
ed, however,  it  fomctimes  adds  beauty  and  fjprightlinefs  to  aix 
expreilion  ;  as  in  this  line  of  Virgil : 

Am  conjurato  defcendens  Dacus  ab  If!ro.         Geor.  II.  474. 

Where  the  perfonal  epithet,  conjuratoy  applied  to  the  river  IJJroy 
is  infinitely  more  poetical  than  it  it  had  been  applied  to  the 
perfon,  thus : 

Aut  conjuratus  defcendens  Dacus  ab  Iftro^ 

A  very  little  tafte  will  make  any  one  feel  the  difference  between 
thefe  two  lines. 

The  next  degree  of  this  figure  is,  when  we  introduce  inani- 
mate objedls  a(!^ing  like  thofe  that  have  life.  Here  wc  rife  3 
ftep  higher,  and  the  Perfonification  becomes  fenfible.  Accord- 
ing to  the  nature  of  the  action,  which  we  attribute  to  thofe 
inanimate  objedls,  and  the  particularity  v^ith  which  we  defcribc 
it,  fuch  is  the  ftrength  of  the  figure.  When  purfued  to  any 
length,  it  belongs  only  to  ftudled  harangues,  to  highly  figured 
and  eloquent  difcourfe ;  when  llightly  touched,  it  may  be  ad- 
mitted into  fubje£ts  of  lefs  elevation.  Cicero,  for  inftance, 
fpcaking  of  the  cafes  whefre  killing  another  is  lawful  in  felf-de- 
fencc,  ufes  the  following  words:  "  Aliquando  nobis  gladius  ad 
"  occidendum  hominera  ab  ipfis  porrigitur  legibus."  (Orat. 
pr(i>]Viilone.)  The  expreffion  is  happy.  The  laws  arc  perfoni- 
fied,  as  reaching  forth  their  hand  to  give  us  a  fword  for  putting  , 
cue  to  death.  Such  fliort  Perfonifications  as  thefe  may  be  ad- 
mitted, even  into  moral  treatifcs,  or  works  of  cool  rcaibning  ;: 
and,  provided  they  be  eafy  and  not  drained,  and  tliat  we  be  not 
cloyed  with  too  frequent  returns  of  them,  they  have  a  good  cf- 
fed  on  ftyle,  and  render  it  hoth  llrocg  and  lively. 

The 


Iect.XVI.  personification.  23? 

The  genius  of  our  Language  gives  us  an  advantage  in  the  ufc 
of  this  figure.  As,  with  us,  no  fubftantive  nouns  have  gender, 
or  are  mafculine  and  feminine,  except  the  proper  names  of  male 
and  female  creatures ;  by  giving  a  gender  to  any  inanimate  ob- 
je6t,  or  abfl:ra£l  idea,  that  is,  in  place  of  the  pronoun  ;'/,  ufing 
the  perfonal  pronouns,  ke  or  JljCy  we  prcfeatly  raife  the  ftyle,  and 
begin  Perfonification.  '  In  folemn  difcourfe,  this  can  often  be 
done  to  good  purpofe,  when  fpeaking  of  religion,  or  virtue,  or 
our  country,  or  any  fuch  objc6t  of  dignity.  I  flial!  give  a  re- 
markably fine  example,  from  a  fermon  of  Bifhop  Sherlock's, 
where  we  fliall  fee  natural  religion  beautifully  perfonified,  and 
be  able  to  judge  from  it,  of  the  fplrit  and  grace  which  this  fig- 
ure, when  well  conduced,  bcftows  on  a  difcourfe.  I  mud  take 
notice,  at  the  fame  time,  that  it  is  an  inftance  of  this  figure,  car- 
ried as  far  as  profe,  even  in  its  highell  elevation,  will  admit,  and 
therefore,  fuited  only  to  compofitions  where  the  great  efforts 
of  eloquence  are  allowed.  The  Author  is  comparing  together 
our  Saviour  and  Mahomet :  "Go,"  fays  he,  "to  your  natural 
*'  religion  ;  lay  before  her  Mahomet,  and  his  difciples,  arrayed 
*'  in  armour  and  blood,  riding  in  triumph  over  the  fpoils  of 
"  thoufauds  who  fell  by  his  viiflorious  fword.  Shew  her  the 
**  cities  which  he  fet  in  flames,  the  countries  which  he  ravaged 
**  and  deflroyed,  and  the  miferable  diftxefs  of  all  the  inhabitants 
*'  of  the  earth.  When  flie  has  viewed  him  in  this  fcene,  carry 
**  her  into  his  retirement  •,  Ihew  her  the  prophet's  chamber  j 
*'  his  concubines  and  his  wives ;  and  let  her  hear  him  allege 
**  revelation,  and  a  divine  commillion,  to  juftlfy  his  adultery 
**and  lull.  When  (he  is  tired  v/ith  this  profpcct,  then  fiiew 
**  her  the  bleflcd  Jefus,  humble  and  meek,  doing  good  to  all  the 
*'  fons  of  men.  Let  her  fee  him  in  his  mod  retired  privacies  ; 
*'  let  her  fallow  him  to  the  Mount,  and  hear  his  devotions  and 
**  fupplications  to  God.  Carry  her  to  his  table,  to  view  his 
"  poor  fare,  and  hear  his  heavenly  dlfcouvfc.  Let  her  attend 
**  him  to  the  tribunal,  and  confider  the  patience  with  which 
*'  he  endured  the  feoffs  and  reproaches  of  his  enemies.  Lead 
**  her  to  his  crofs ;  let  her  view  him  in  the  agony  of  death,  and 
*'  hear  his  lad  prayer  for  his  pcrfecutors:  Father^  forgive  then:, 
*^for  they  know  not  what  they  Jo!  When  Natural  Religion  has 
"  thus  viewed  both,  alk  her,  Which  is  the  Prophet  of  God  I 

"But 


232  PERSONIFICATION.  Lect.XVL 

**But  "her  anfwer  we  have  already  had,  when  fhe  faw  part  of 
*'this  fcctic,  through  the  eyes  of  the  centurion,  who  attended 
"at  the  crofs.  By  liim  fh;;  Ipolce,  and  faid,  Truly,  this  man 
**  was  tht  Sen  of  God."*  This  is  more  than  elegant  ;  it  is  truly 
fublimc.  The  whole  paffage  is  animated  ;  and  the  figure  rife* 
at  the  concluiion,  when  Natural  Religion,  who,  before  was*o^"i>^ 
ly  a  fpedtator,  is  introduced  as  fpeaking  by  the  centurion's  "voice. 
It  has  the  better  efFe£l  too,  that  it  occurs  at  the  conclufion 
of  a  difcourfe,  where  wc  naturally  look  for  moH:  warmth  and 
dignity.  Did  Blfliop  Sherlock's  Sermons,  or,  indeed  any 
Englilh  fermons  whatever,  aiFord  us  many  pafl'.iges  equal  to 
this,  we  fliould  oftencr  have  recourfc  to  them  for  iuflanccs  of 
the  beauty  of  Gompolition, 

Hitherto  we  have  fpoken  of  profe  ;  in  poetry,  Perfonificationa 
of  this^  kiiul  are  extremely  frequent,  and  are,  indeed,  the  life  imd 
foul  of  it.  Vv'^e  expe6i  to  find  every  thing  animated  in  the  de-" 
fcription  of  a  poet  who  h>is  a  lively  fancy.  Accordingly  Ho- 
mer, the  father  and  prince  of  poets,  is  remarkable  for  the  uie  of 
this  figure.  War,  peace,  darts,  fpears,  towns,  rivers,  every 
thing,  in  fhort,  is  alive  in  his  writings.  The  fame  is  the  cafe 
■with  Milton  and  Shakcfpeare.  No  Perfonification,  in  any  au- 
thor, is  more  flriking  or  introduced  on  a  more  proper  occafion, 
than  the  fallowing  of  Milton's,  on  occafion  of  Eve's  eating  the 
forbidden  fruit : 

So  faving,  her  ra(h  I'mnd,  in  evil  hour 

Forth  reaching  to  the  fruit,  fhe  pluck'd,  flie  ate; 

Earth  felt  t)ie  v/ound  ;  and  nature  from  her  I'eat 

&ighing>  through  all  her  works,  gave  f igns  of  woe, 

That  all  was  loft. ix.  y%9. 

All  the  circumflances  and  ages  of  men,  poverty,  riches,  youth, 
old  age,  all  the  difpofitions  and  palfions,  melancholy,  love, 
grief,  contentment,  are  capable  of  being  pcrfonified  in  poetry, 
"with  great  propriety.  Of  this,  we  meet  with  frequent  exam- 
ples in  Milton's  Allegro  and  Penferofo,  Parnell's  Hymn  to  Con- 
tentment, Thomfon's  Scafons,  and  all  the  good  poets  :  nor, 
indeed,  is  it  eafy  to  fet  any  bounds  to  Perfonification  of  this, 
kind,  in  poetry. 

One 
♦  Bifhop  Sherlock's  Sermons,  Vol.  I,  Bifc.  ix. 


Ie^t.XVI.         personification.  233 

One  of  the  greateft  pleafures  we  receive  from  poetry,  is,  to 
End  ourfelves  always  in  the  midft  of  our  fellows  ;  and  to  fee 
every  thing  thinking,  feeling,  and  atting,  as  wc  ourfelves  do. 
This  is,  perhaps,  the  principal  charm  of  this  fort  of  figured 
ftyle,  that  it  introduces  us  into  fociety  with  all  nature,  and  in- 
terefts  us,  even  in  inanimate  objects,  by  forming  a  connexion 
bet\y^en  them  and  us,  through  that  fenfibility  which  it  afcribes 
to  them.  This  is  exemplified  in  the  following  beautiful  paf- 
fage  of  Thomfon's  Summer,  wherein  the  life  which  he  be- 
flows  upon  all  nature,  when  defcribing  the  efFecls  of  the  rifing 
i'unj  renders  the  fcenery  uncommonly  gay  and  intereitiug  : 

But  yonder  comes  ths  powerful  king  of  day 
Rejoicing  in  the  eaft.     The  leffening  cloud. 
The  kindling  azure  and  the  mountain's  brow 
Tiptwith  asthereul  gold,  his  near  approach 

Betoken  glad. 

By  thee  refin'd, 

In  brificer  meafures,  the  relucont  llream 
Friflcs  o'er  the  mead.    The  precipice  abrupt, 
Proje<5ting  horror  on  tl\e  blacken'd  flood. 
Softens  at  thy  return.    The  defart  joys, 
Wildly,  through  all  his  melancholy  bounds. 
Rude  ruins  glitter  ;  and  the  briny  deep. 
Seen  from  fome  pointed  promontory's  top, 
Reiled:s  from  every  flutftuating  wave, 
A  glance  extenlive  as  the  day. 

The  fame  cffe^l  is  remarkable  in  that  fine  pafTage  of  Milton* 


-To  the  nuptial  bower. 


I  led  her  blufliing  like  the  morn.     All  heaven 
And  happy  conftellations,  on  that  hour, 
Shed  their  feleftcll  influence.    The  earth 
Gaj/e  figns  of  gratulation,  and  each  hill. 
Joyous  the  birds  ;  frefli  gales  and  gentle  airs 
Whifper'd  it  to  the  woods,  and  from  their  wings 
Flung  rofe,  flung  odour  from  the  Ipicy  Ihrub, 
Difportiiig.— — — — 

The  third  and  higheft  degree  of  this  figure  remains  to  be 
mentioned,  when  inanimate  objects  are  introduced,  not  only 
as  feeling  and  a<^ing,  but  as  fpeaking  to  us,  or  hearing  and 
liftening  when  we  addrefs  ourfelves  to  them.  This,  though 
on  feveral  occafions  far  from  being  unnatural,  is,  however, 
more  difficult  in  the  execution,  than  the  other  kinds  of  Perfou- 
G  G  iUcation. 


134  PERSONIFICATION.  Lect.XVL 

ification.  For  this  is  plainly  the  boldeft  of  all  rhetorical  fig- 
ures ;  it  is  the  ft.yl.j  of  a  rtrong  pafTion  only  -,  and,  therefore, 
never  to  be  attempted,  unlefs  when  the  mind  is  confiderably 
heated  and  agitated.  A  flight  Perfonification  of  fome  inani- 
mate thing,  acting  as  if  it  had  life,  can  be  reliflied  by  the  mind, 
in  the  midft  of  cool  defcription,  and  when  its  ideas  are  going 
on  in  the  ordinary  train.  But  it  mud  be  in  a  ftate  of  violent 
emotion,  and  have  departed  confiderably  from  its  common  track 
of  thought,  before  It  Cdn  fo  far  realife  the  Perfonification  of  an 
infenfible  objc£l,  as  to  conceive  it  liftening  to  what  we  fay,  or 
making  any  return  to  us.  All  llrong  paflions,  however,  have 
a  tendency  to  ufe  this  figure  ;.  not  only  love,  anger,  and  indig- 
nation, but  even  thofe  which  are  feemingly  more  difpiriting, 
fuch  as,  grief,  remorfe,  and  melancholy.  For  all  paflions  drug- 
gie for  vent,  and  if  they  can  find  no  other  object,  will,  rather 
than  be  filenf,  pour  themfclves  forth  to  woods,  and  rocks,  and 
the  nioft  infenfible  things  j  efpecially  if  thefe  be  any  how  con- 
ne£ted  with  the  caufes  and  objects  that  have  thrown  the 
mind  into  this  agitation.  Hence,  in  poetry,  where  the  greateft 
liberty  is  allowed  to  the  Language  of  pafllon,  it  is  eafy  to  pro- 
duce many  beautiful  examples  of  this  figure.  Milton  affords 
us  an  extremely  fine  one,  in  that  moving  and  tender  addrefs 
which  Eve  makes  to  Paradife,  jufl:  before  flie  is  compelled  f 
kave  it. 

Oh  !  unexpefted  ftroke,  worfe  than  of  death  ! 
Mud  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradife  !  thus  leave 
Thee,  native  foil,  thefe  happy  walks,  and  fhades, 
Fit  haunt  of  god-?  !  wlicre  \  had  hope  to  fpend 
Quiet,  though  lad,  the  rcl'pite  of  that  day, 
Which  mult  be  moital  to  us  both.     O  liowers  ! 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow. 
My  early  vKitation,  and  my  laft 
At  ev'n,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand, 
.     From  yourfirll  op'ning  buds,  and  gave  you  names  ! 
Who  now  iliall  rear  you  to  the  fun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  th'  ambrolial  fount  ? 

Book  XII,  1. 26t. 

This  is  altogether  the  language  of  nature,  and  of  female  paffion. 
It  is  obfervable,  that  all  plaintive  paflTions  are  peculiarly  proive 
to  the  life  of  this  figure.  The  complaints  which  Philodletes, 
in  Sophocles,  pours  out  to  the  rocks  and  caves  of  Lemnos, 
aniidft  (he  excefs  of  his  grief  ailtldefpair,  are  remarkably  fine 

examples 


Lect.XVL  personification.  235 

examples  of  it.*  And  there  are  frequent  exampleSi  not  in  po- 
etry only,  but  in  real  life,  of  perfons,  when  juil  about  to  fuffer 
death,  taking  a  pafiionate  farewel  of  the  fun,  moon,  and  ftars, 
or  other  fcnfible  objedls  around  them. 

There  are  two  great  rules  for  the  management  of  this  fort 
of  Perfonification.  The  firft  rule  is,  never  to  attempt  it,  upIeCs 
■when  prompted  by  flrong  paffion,  and  never  to  continue  it 
when  the  paffion  begins  to  flag.  It  is  one  of  thofe  high  orna- 
ments, which  can  only  find  place  in  the  mofl  warm  and  fpirit- 
ed  parts  of  compofition  ;  and  there,  too,  mufl  be  employed  with 
moderation- 

The  fecond  rule  is,  never  to  perfonify  any  obje£l  in  this  way, 

.but  fuch  as  has  fome  dignity  in  itfclf,  and  can  make  a  proper 
figure  in  this  elevation  to  which  we  raife  it.  }  The  obfervance 
of  this  rule  is  required,  even  in  the  lower  degrees  of  Perfonifi- 
cation j  but  flill  more,  when  an  addrefs  is  made  to  the  perfon- 
ified  objc£l.  To  addrefs  the  corpfe  of  a-deceafed  friend,  is 
natural ;  but  to  addrefs  the  clothes  which  he  wore,  introduces 
mean  and  degrading  ideas.  So  alfo,  addrefTing  the  feveral  parts 
of  one's  body,  as  if  they  were  animated,  is  not  congruous  to  the 

.  dignity  of  pafTion.  For  this  reafon,  I  muft  condemn  the  fol- 
lowing paflage,  in  a  very  beautiful  poi^rr.i  of  Mr^  Pope's,  Eloifa 

.to  Abelard. 

Dear  fatal  name  !  reft  ever  unreveal'd, 
Nor  pafs  thefe  lips  in  holy  lilence  feal'd. 
■     Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  clofe  difguife, 
Where,  mix'd  with  God's,  his  lov'd  idea  lies  : 
Oh  !  write  it  not,  my  hand  ! — his  name  appears 
Already  written — Blot  it  out,  my  tears  ! 

Here  are  feveral  different  objefts  and  parts  of  the  body  perfon- 
jfied  f  and  each  of  them  is  addrefTed  or  fpoken  to  j  let  us  con- 

fider 

©npuv  opfiav,  a  y.aTop^cjyt{  TTfTpat 
•T«<v  Ta<f'  w  yap  aWiv  vii'  ora  Ktya, 

•*  O  mountains,  rivers,  rocks,  and  favage  herds, 

*'  To  you  I  fpeak  !  to  you  alone,  I  now 

*'  Muft  breathe  my  forrows  !  you  arc  wont  to  hear 

*'  My  {;id  complaints,  and  I  will  tell  you  all 

"  That  I  have  iuffcred  from  Achilles'  fon  !" 

FrankmK* 


236  PERSONIFICATION.  Lect.  XVL 

fider  with  what  propriety.  The  firfl:  is,  the  name  of  Abelard  : 
•*  Dear  fatal  name  !  reft  ever,"  &c.  To  this,  no  reafonable  ol> 
je£lion  can  be  made.  For,  as  the  name  of  a  perfon  often 
ftands  for  the  perfon  himfeif,  and  fuggefts  the  fame  ideas,  it 
can  bear  this  Perfonification  with  fufficient  dignity.  Next,  Eloi- 
fa  fpeaks  to  herfeif,  and  pcrfonifies  her  heart  for  thi-s  purpofe;. 
••  Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  clofe,"&c.  As  the  heart  is  a 
dignified  part  of  the  human  frame,  and  is  often  put  for  the 
mind,  or  afFc£lions,  this  alfo  may  pafs  without  blame.  But, 
when  from  heart  flie  paiTes  to  her  hand,  and  tells  her  hand  not 
to  write  his  name,  this  is  forced  and  unnatural  j  a  perfonificd 
hand  is  low,  and  not  in  the  ftyle  of  true  pafHon  :  and  the  iigure 
becomes  ftill  worfe,  when,  in  the  laft  place,  fhe  exhorts  her  tears 
to  blot  out  -what  her  hand  had  written  ;  "  Oh  !  write  in  not,'* 
8ic.  There  is,  in  thefe  two  lines,  an  air  of  epigrammatic  con- 
ceit, which  native  pafiion  never  fuggefts  ;  and  which  is  alto- 
gether unfuitable  to  the  tendernefs  which  breathes  through  the 
reft  of  that  cxcclJent  poem. 

In  profe  compofitions,  this  figure  requires  to  be  ufed  wiih 
ftill  greater  moderation  and  delicacy.  The  fame  liberty  is  not 
allowed  to  the  imagination  there,  as  in  poetry.  The  fame  af- 
fiftances  cannot  beobtamed  for  raifing  paflion  to  its  proper  height, 
by  the  force  of  numbers,  and  the  glow  of  ftyle.  However,  ad- 
tlrefiies  to  inanimate  obje£ls  are  not  excluded  from  profe  ;  but 
have  their  place  only  in  the  higher  fpeclcs  of  oratory.  A  pub- 
lic fpeaker  may,  on  fome  occafions,  very  properly  iuldrefs  relig- 
ion or  virtue ;  or  his  native  country,  or  fome  city  or  province, 
which  has  fuflcved  perhaps  great  calamities,  or  been  the  fcene 
of  fome  memorable  a£lion.  But  we  muft  remember,  that  as 
fuch  addreffes  are  among  the  highcft  iiforts  of  eloquence,  they 
fhould  never  be  attempted,  unlefs  by  perfons  of  more  than  or- 
dinary genius.  For  if  the  orator  fails  in  his  defign  of  moving 
our  pailions  by  them,  he  is  fure  of  being  laughed  at.  Of  all 
frigid  things,  the  moft  frigid,  are  the  awkward  and  unfeafona- 
ble  attempts  fometimes  made  towards  fuch'  kinds  of  Perfoni- 
fication, efpecially  if  they  be  long  continued.  We  lee  the  writ- 
er or  fpeaker  toiling  and  labouring,  to  exprefs  the  language  of 
fome  pafiion,  which  he  neither  feels  himfeif,  uor  can  make  u» 

feel. 


Lect.  XVI.  PERSONIFICATION.  237 

feel.  We  remain  not  only  cold,  but  frozen  ;  and  arc  at  full  lei- 
fure  to  criticife  on  the  riiiiculous  figure  which  the  peribnified 
object  makes,  when  we  ought  to  have  been  tranfported  with  a 
glow  of  enthufiafm.  Some  of  the  French  visiters,  particular- 
ly Bofl'uet  and  Flechier,  in  their  fermons  and  funeral  orations, 
have  attempted  and  executed  this  figure,  not  without  warmth 
and  dignity.  Their  works  are  exceedingly  worthy  of  being 
confulted,  for  inftances  of  this,  and  of  feveral  other  ornaments 
of  ftyle.  Indeed  the  vivacity  and  ardour  of  the  French  genius 
js  more  fuited  to  this  animated  kind  of  oratory,  than  the  more 
correO,  but  more  phlegmatic  genius  of  the  Bricilh,  who,  in 
their  profe  works,  very  rarely  attempt  any  of  the  high  figures 
of  eloquence.*  So  much  for  Perfonification  or  Profopopocia, 
in  all  its  different  forms. 

Apoftrophe 

*  Tn  the  "  Oraifons  Funebres  de  IM.  Boffuet "  which  T  confider  as  one  of  the 
matter- pieces  of  modern  eloquence,  Apoftrophes  and  addreiles,  to  perlbnificd 
olijeifts,  fitqutntly  occur,  aod  arc  fupported  with  much  fpirit.  Thus,  for 
infiance,  in  the  funeral  oration  of  Mary  of  Auftria,  Queen  of  France,  the 
author  addrelics  Aigicro,  in  the  profpect  of  the  advantage  which  the  arms  of 
JLouis  XIV.  were  to  g^^in  over  it  :  "  Avant  hii  la  France,  prciqiie  fans  vaif- 
*'  Icaux,  tenoit  en  vain  aiix  deux  mers.  Maintenant,  on  les  voit  couvertcs 
"  dcjHiis  le  Levant  jufqu'au  couchant  de  uos  flottes  vi(ftorieufes  ;  &  la  hardi- 
*'  efle  Fran^oife  piirte  par  tout  la  tctreur  avec  le  n<'m  de  Louis.  Tu  cedcras, 
"  tu  tonil'eras  fous  ce  vainqueur,  Alger  !  riche  des  depouilics  de  la  Chrcti- 
*'  cnte  Tu  dil'ois  en  ion  cciy  avarc,  je  tkns  la  mer  fous  mes  loix,  &.  Ics  na- 
•'  tions  font  ma  proie.  La  Itgcrcte  de  tes  vailTeaux  tc  donnoit  de  ia  confiance. 
"  Mais  tu  te  vcrras  attaque  dans  tes  murailks,  comme,  un  oifcau  raviflant 
*'  qu'on  iioit  chercher  parmi  fcs  rochers,  &;  dans  fon  iiid,  ou  il  partagc  foa 
"  butin  a  fes  pttits.  Tu  rends  dcj.'i  tes  cfclavrs  Louisa  brife  les  fers  doi^t 
*•  tu  acc.it)lois  fes  fujcts,  &c."  In  another  palTage  of  the  fame  oration,  he  thus 
apoftropliiacs  tlie  lllc  of  Phcafants,  vhich  had  bien  rendered  famous  by  being 
the  leenc  of  thole  conferences,  in  which  the  treaty  of  the  Pyrenees  between 
France  and  Spain,  and  the  marriage  of  tiiis  Princefj  with  the  King  of  France, 
were  concluded.  "  lile  pacifiquc  oufedoivcnt  termini  r  les  diflerends  de  deux 
"  grands  empires  a  q^ui  tu  fers  de  liniites;  ille  ctcrnellcment  memorable  par 
"Its  confertncci  de  deux  grands  miniflrcs.  Aupuflc  journee  ou  deux  lieres 
•'  nations,  long  tems  enncniis,  tt  alors  reconcilices  par  Marie  Therefe,  s'avan- 
*'  ^ent  fur  leur  conlins,  leurs  rois  a  leur  tcte,  non  plus  pons  fc  combattre,  mais 
*'  pour  s'tmbraller.  Fetes  facrees,  marriage  fortune,  voile  nuptial,  benediiflion, 
"  iacritice,  puis-jc  meler  aujoiudhui  vos  ceremonies,  ct  v«5  pompes  avec  ces 
*' ponipes  funtlircs,  &  Ic  coniblr  des  grandeurs  aveclcurs  mines!"  In  the 
funeral  oration  of  Henrietta,  Qiicen  of  Knghnid,  (which  is  perhaps  the  nohleTi 
of  all  his  conipofitions)  after  recounting  all  flic  had  done  to  fupport  hef  un- 
fortunate luifliand,  he  concluflcs  wiih  this  beautiful  Apoftrophe  •  "  O  mere! 
"  O  femme  !  O  reinc  admirable  &  dignc  d'une  mcilieurc  fortune,  fi  Ics  fortune-; 
•'  de  la  tcrrc  etoient  quelquc  chofe  !  Enlin  il  faut  cedct  a  votrc  fort.  Vo«» 
"  avcz  afle-z  foutenu  I'e-tat,  <jui  eft  attaque,  par  une  force  invinritili  et  divine, 
*•  II  ne  icQt  plus  dcfwtmais,  li  uon  ^ue  vous  ItuifZ  fcrmc  parmi  fcs  j;iiiucs/' 


tjB  APOSTROPHE.         Lect.  XVt 

ApoRroplic  is  a  figure  fo  much  of  the  fame  kind,  that  it  will 
not  require  many  words.  It  is  an  addrefs  to  a  real  perfon  j 
but  one  who  is  either  abfent  or  dead,  as  if  he  were  prefent,  and 
Jiftening  to  us^  It  is  fo  much  allied  to  an  addrefs  to  inanimate 
objcfts  perfonified,  that  both  thefe  figures  are  fometimes  called 
Apoftroplies.  i  However,  the  proper  Apoftrophe  is  in  boldnefs 
one  degree  lower  than  the  addrefs  to  perfonified  objects  ;  for 
it  certainly  requires  a  lefs  efFort  of  imagination  to  fuppofe  pcr- 
fons  prefent  who  are  dead  or  abfent,  than  to  animate  infenfi- 
ble  beings,  and  dire£l  our  difcourfe  to  them..  Both  figures  are 
fubjecl  to  the  fame  rule  of  being  prompted  by  paifion,  in  order 
to  render  them  natural  5  for  both  are  the  language  of  pafTion 
er  ftrong  emotions  only.  Among  the  poets,  Apoftrophe  is  fre- 
<juent  'y    as  in  Virgil :  • 

Pereunt  Hypanifque  Dymafque 

Confixl  a  foclis  ;  nee  te,  tua  plurima,  Panthea, 
Labeiitem  pittas,  nee  Apollinis  infuia  texit  !* 

The  poems  of  Offian  are  full  of  the  mofl  beautiful  inflanc^s 
©f  this  figure  :  "  Weep  on  the  rocks  of  roaring  winds,  O  maid 
*'  of  Iniftore  !  Bend  thy  fair  head  over  the  waves,  thou  fairer 
**  than  the  ghoft  of  the  hills,  when  it  moves  in  a  funbcam  at 
*'  noon  over  the  fileiice  of  Morven  !  He  is  fallen  !  Thy  vouth 
"  is  low  ;  pale  beneath  the  fword  of  Cuchullin  !"f  Ouintilian 
affords  us  a  very  fine  example  in  profe  -,  when,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  his  fixth  book,  deploring  the  untimely  death  of  his 
fon,  which  had  happened  during  the  courfe  of  the  work,  he 
makes  a  very  moving  and  tender  Apoftrophe  to  him.  "  Nam 
**  quo  ille  animo,  qua  medicorum  admiratione,  menfium  aQo 
*'  valetudincm  tulit  ?  ut  me  in  fupremis  confolatus  eft  ?  quam 
*'  etiam  jam  deficiens,  jamque  non  nofter,  ipfum  ilium  alienajiae 
**  mentis  errorem  circa  folas  literal  habuit  ?  Tuofne  ergo,  O 
**  mere  fpcs  inanes  !  labentes  oculos,  tuum  fugientem  fpiritum 
"  vidi  ?  Tuum  corpus  frigidum,  exangues  complexus,  animam 
"  recipere,  auramque  communem  haurire  ampliuspotui  ?  Tene, 
*'  confulari  nuper  adoptione  ad  omnium  fpes  honorum  patris 
*'  admotum,  te,  avunculo  prsetori  generum  dcftinatum;  te, 
J*  omnium  fpe  Atticae  eloquentiie  candidatum,  parens  fuperftes 

"  tan  turn 
*  Nor  Pantheiis !  thee,  tliy  mitre,  nor  the  bands 

pf  awi'ul  Phoebus  fav'd  iiom  tmpitfUS  JilHuds*  Pryden, 

t  Fingal,  B.  I 


Lbct:  XVr.         A  P  O  S^  T  R  O  P  H  E?.  23^ 

"  tanturn  ad  pceiias  amifi !"  *  In  this  paCigc,  QuintiUati 
fl^ews  the  true  genius  or  an  orator,  as  much  as  he  does  elfc- 
where  that  of  the  critic. 

For  fuch  bold  figures  of  difcourfe  as  ftrong  Pcrfonifilcations, 
addrcfles  to  perfonKied  objefts,  and  Apoflrophes,  the  glowing 
imagination  of  the  ancient  Oriental  nations  was  particularly 
fitted.  I  Hcttce,  in  the  facred  fcriptures,  we  find  fome  very  re- 
markable inftanccs :  "  O  thou  fword  of  the  Lord  !  how  long 
*'  will  it  be  ere  thou  be  quiet  ?  put  thyfclf  up  into  thy  fcab- 
"  bard,  reft  and  be  ftill  I  How  can  it  be  quiet,  feeing  the  Lord 
**  hath  given  it  a  charge  againfl:  Aflikelon,  and  agalntl  the  fea- 
**  {here  ?  there  hath  he  appointed  it."f  There  is  one  pallagc 
in  particular,  which  I  muft  not  omit  to  mention,  becaufe  it 
contains  a  greater  affemblage  of  fublimc  ideas,  of  bold  and  dar- 
ing figures,  than  is  perhaps  any  v/here  to  be  met  with.  It  is  in 
the  fourteenth  chapter  of  Ifaiah,  where  the  prophet  thus  de- 
fcribes  the  fall  of  the  Aflyrian  empire  :  "  Thou  flialt  take  uj) 
*'  this  proverb  againft  the  king  of  Babylon,  and  fay.  How  hatli 
*'  the  oppreffbr  ceafed  !  the  golden  city  ceafed  !  The  Lord  hath 
**  broken  the  ftafF  of  the  wicked,  and  the  fceptre  of  the  rulers. 
**  He  who  fmote  the  people  in  wrath  with  a  continual  ftroke  : 
*'  he  that  ruled  the  nations  in  anger,  is  perfecuted,  and  none 
*'  hlndereth.  The  whole  earth  is  at  reft,  and  is  quiet  :  they 
**  break  forth  intO'  finging.  Yea,  the  fir-trees  rejoice  at  tiiec, 
"  and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  faying.  Since  thou  art  laid  down, 
**  no  feller  is  come  up  againft  us.  Hell  from  beneath  is  moved 
*'  for  tliee  to  meet  thee  at  thy  coming  :  it  ftirreth  up  the  dead 
**  for  thee,  even  all  the  chief  ones  of  the  earth  :  it  hath  raifed 

"  up 

•  "  With  wtiat  fpirit,  and  liow  much  to  the  admiration  of  tlie  phyficians 
**  did  lie  bear  throughout'  eight  months  his  hngeriiig  cliftrcfs  ?  With  wliat 
"  tender  atteutioa  diU  he  fttidy,  even  in  the  ialt  cxtrtmity,  to  comfort  mu  ? 
*'  And,  when  no  ionoer  himltif,  how  affciftiog  was  it  to  b(;lio'<l  thf  difordctcd 
"■  cft'orts  of  his  wandering  mind,  wholly  employed  on  fiibjci'ts  of  h'tcraturc  ? 
"  Ah  I  my  frurtrated  and  falltn  hopes !  Have  I  thci»  beheld  your  cloiing  eyes, 
"  and  heard  the  laft  groan  ilFue  from  your  lips?  After  having  embraced  your 
"  cold  and  breathlefs  body,  how  was  it  in  my  power  to  draw  the  vital  air,  or 
"  continue  to  drag  a  miferable  life  ?  When  I  had  juft  beheld  you  railed  by  con- 
*'  Cul.ir  adoption  to  the  profpe^H:  of  all  your  f.ither's  honours,  dtftined  to  be 
*'  foii-in-law  to  your  uncle  the  Pr.ctor,  pointed  out  by  general  cxpcc'lation  as 
^'  the  luccefbful  candidate  for  the  pri/c  of  Attic  eloquence,  in  tliis  moment  of 
"  )4our  opening  honours,  muft  1  lole  you  forever,  and  remain  an  uiih»ppy 
^'  pmciii,  iurvivin^  only  to  fulFer  woe  .'" 

t  Jcr.  xlvii.  6,  7. 


04©  APOSTROPHE,         Lect.  XVI. 

"  up  from  their  thrones  all  the  kings  of  the  nations.  All  they 
•'  fhall  fpeak,  and  fay  unto  thee,  art  thou  alfo  become  weak  as 
•*  we  ?  art  thou  become  like  unto  us  ?  Thy  pomp  is  brought 
'*  down  to  the  grave,  and  the  noife  of  thy  viols  j  the  worm  is 
'*  fpread  under  thee,  and  the  worms  cover  thee.  How  art  thou 
"  fallen  from  heaven,  O  Lucifer,  fou  of  the  morning  !  how 
**  art  thou  cut  down  to  the  ground,  which  didft  weaken  the 
"  nations  !  For  thou  hail  faid  in  thine  heart,  I  will  afcend  into 
"  heaven,  I  will  exalt  my  throne  above  the  ftars  of  God  :  I 
■*  will  fit  alfo  upon  the  mount  of  the  congregation,  in  the  fides 
"  of  the  north.  I  will  afcend  above  the  heights  of  the  clouds* 
**  I  will  be  "like  the  Moft  High.  Yet  thou  (halt  be  brought 
•*  down  to  hell,  to  the  fides  of  the  pit.  They  that  fee  thee 
*'  (hall  narrowly  look  upon  thee,  and  confider  thee,  faying,  Is 
"  this  the  man  that  made  the  earth  to  tremble,  that  did  Ihake 
**  kingdoms  ?  That  made  the  world  as  a  wilderncfs,  and  de- 
•*  ftroyed  the  cities  thereof ;  that  opened  not  the  houfe  of  his 
^'  prifoners  ?  All  the  kings  of  the  nations,  even  all  of  them  lie 
"'  in  glory,  every  one  in  his  own  houfe.  But  thou  art  caft  out 
"  of  thy  grave,  like  an  abominable  branch  :  and  as  the  raiment 
"  of  thofe  that  are  flain,  thruft  through  with  a  fword,  that  go 
"  down  to  the  Hones  of  the  pit,  as  a  carcafs  trodden  under 
''  feet."  This  whole  paflage  is  full  of  fublimity.  Every  obje£t 
is  animated  j  a  variety  of  perfonages  are  introduced  :  we  hear 
the  Jews,  the  fir-trees,  and  cedars  of  Lebanon,  the  ghofts  of 
departed  kings,  the  king  of  Babylon  himfelf,  and  thofe  who 
look  upon  his  body,  all  fjJeaking  in  their  order,  and  acting  their 
different  parts  without  confufioii. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        XVIL 


COMPARISON,  ANTITHESIS,  INTERROGATION, 
EXCLAMATION,  AND  OTHER  FIGURES  OF 
SPEECH. 

W  E  are  ftlll  engaged  in  the  confideration  of  figures 
of  fpeech ;  ■which,  as  they  add  much  to  the  beauty  of  ftyle  when 
properly  employed,  and  are  at  the  fame  time  liable  to  be  greatly 
abufed,  require  a  careful  difcuflion.  As  it  would  be  tedious 
to  dwell  on  all  the  variety  of  figurative  expreflions  which  rhet- 
oricians have  enumerated,  I  chofe  to  feled:  the  capital  figures, 
fuch  as  occur  moft  frequently,  and  to  make  my  remarks  on 
thefe  ;  the  principles  and  rules  laid  down  concerning  them,  will 
fufficiently  direft  us  to  the  ufe  of  the  reft,  either  in  profe  or 
poetry.  Of  Mctnphor,  which  is  the  mod  common  of  them  all, 
I  treated  fully ;  and  in  the  iaft  Ledlure  I  difcourfed  of  Ply- 
perbole,  Perfonification,  and  Apoftrophe.  This  Le0.uxe  will 
nearly  finifli  what  remains  on  the  head  of  figures. 

Comparifon,  or  Simile,  is  what  I  am  to  treat  of  firft  :  a  fig- 
ure frequently  employed  both  by  poets  and  profe  writers,  for 
the  ornament  of  compofition.  In  a  former  Le6lure,  I  explain- 
ed fully  the  difference  betwixt  this  and  Metaphor.  A  Meta- 
phor is  a  Comparifon  implied,  but  not  exprefled  as  fuch ;  as 
when  I  fiy,  **  Achilles  is  a  Lion,"  meaning,  that  he  refembles 
\  one  in  courage  or  flrength.  A  Comparifon  is,  when  the  re- 
femblance  between  two  objects  is  exprefied  in  form,  and  gener- 
ally purfued  more  fully  than  the  nature  of  a  Metaphor  admits ; 
as  when  I  fay,  "  The  a£lions  of  princes  are  like  thofe  great  riv- 
"  ers,  the  courfe  of  which  every  one  beholds,  but  their  fprings 
*•  have  been  feen  by  few."  This  flight  in  (lance  will  fhow,  that 
a  happy  Comparifon  is  a  kind  of  fparkliiig  ornament,  which 
adds  not  a  little  luftre  and  beauty  to  difcourfe  ;  and  hence  fuch 
figures  are  termed  by  Cicero,  "  Orationis  lumina.'* 

H  a  The 


542  COMPARISON.        Lect.XVII. 

The  pleafure  we  take  in  Comparifons  is  jufl:  and  natural.  We 
may  remark  three  dlfFerent  fources  whence  it  arifes.  Firll, 
From  the  pleafure  which  nature  has  annexed  to  that  aft  of  the 
mind  by  which  we  compare  any  two  objects  together,  trace  re- 
fe'Tiblances  among  tholethatare  different, and  ilifferences  among 
thofe  that  refemble  each  other ;  a  pleafure,  the  final  caufe  of 
which  is,  to  prompt  us  to  remark  and  obferve,  and  thereby  to 
make  us  advance  in  ufeful  knowledge.  This  operation  of  the 
mind  is  naturally  and  univcrfally  agreeable ;  as  appears  from 
the  delight  which  even  children  have  in  comparing  things  to- 
gether, as  foon  as  they  arc  capable  of  attending  to  the  objects 
that  furround  them.  Secondly,  The  pleafure  of  Comparifon 
arifes  from  the  illuftration  which  the  Simile  employed  gives  to 
the  principal  object  -,  from  the  clearer  view  of  it  which  it  pre- 
fents ;  or  the  more  (Irong  impreflion  of  it  which  it  flamps  upon 
the  mind  :  and,  thirdly,  It  arifes  from  the  introdudlion  of  a  new, 
and  commonly  a  fpjcndid  object,  afTociated  to  the  principal  one 
of  which  we  treat ;  and  from  the  agreeable  picture  which  that 
object  prefents  to  the  fancy  ;  new  fcenes  being  thereby  brought 
into  view,  which,  without  the  afliftance  of  this  figure,  we  could 
not  have  enjoyed. 

All  Comparifons  whatever  m.aybe  reduced  under  two  heads, 
JExp/ahiiftg  and  EinbeUjJ/Mng  Comparifons.  For  when  a  writer 
likens  the  obje£t  of  which  he  treats  to  any  other  thing,  it  al- 
ways is,  or  at  lead  always  ftiould  be,  with  a  view  either  to  make 
us  underlland  that  object  more  diltinftly,  or  to  drefs  it  up,  and 
adorn  it.  All  manner  of  lubjecls  admit  of  Explaining  Com- 
parifons. Let  an  author  be  reafoning  ever  fo  ftri£tly,  or  treat- 
ing the  moft  abftrufe  point  in  philofophy,  he  may  very  proper- 
ly introduce  a  Comparifon,  merely  with  a  view  to  make  his 
fubjeiSt  better  underOood.  Of  tliis  nature,  is  the  following 
in  Mr.  Harris's  Hermes,  employed  to  explain  a  very  abftradl 
point,  the  diilindion  between  the  powers  of  fenfc  and  imagin- 
ation in  the  human  mind.  "  As  wax  "  fays  he,  "  would  not  be 
*'  adequate  to  the  purpofe  of  fignatures,  if  it  had  not  the  power 
*'  to  retain  as  well  as  to  receive  the  impreflion ;  the  fame  holds 
**  of  the  foul,  with  refpeft  to  fenfe  and  imagination.  Senfe  is 
**  its  receptive  power ;  imagination  its  retentive.  Had  it  fenfe 
f*  without  imagination,  it  would  not  be  as  vva.x,  but  as  watec, 

"  where. 


Lect.XVIL        comparison.  243 

**  where,  though  all  imprefTions  be  inftantly  made,  yet  as  foon 
**  as  they  are  made,  they  arc  inftantly  loft."  In  Comparifons 
of  this  nature,  the  undcrft.anding  is  concerned  much  more  than 
the  fancy  ;  and  therefore  the  only  rules  to  be  obfcrved,  with 
refpcdl  to  tlicm,  are,  that  they  be  clear,  and  that  they  be  ufeful ; 
that  they  tend  to  render  our  conception  of  the  principal  objeO: 
more  diftintl ;  and  that  they  do  not  lead  our  view  afide,  and 
bewilder  it  with  any  falfc  light. 

But  Embcllifliing  Comparifons,  introduced  not  fo  much  with 
a  view  to  inform  and  inftruct,  as  to  adorn  the  fubjedl  of  which 
we  treat,  are  thofe  with  which  we  are  chiefly  concerned  at  pref- 
ent,  as  figures  of  fpeech  ;  and  thofe,  indeed,  which  moft  fre- 
quently occur.  Refemblance,  as  I  before  mentioned,  is  the 
foundation  of  this  figure.  We  muft  not,  however,  t^ke  refem- 
blance, in  too  ftri£l:  a  fenfe,  for  a£lual  fimilitude  or  likenefs  of 
appearance.  Two  objects  may  fometimes  be  very  happily  com- 
pared to  one  another,  though  they  refemble  each  other,  ilridHy 
fpeaking,  in  nothing  ;  only,  becaufe  they  agree  in  the  effefts 
which  they  produce  upon  the  mind  ;  becaufe  they  raife  a  train 
of  fimilar,  or  what  may  be  called,  concordant  ideas  ;  fo  that  the 
remembrance  of  the  one,  when  recalled,  ^erves  to  ftrengthen 
die  imprefhon  made  by  the  other.  For  example,  to  defcribc 
the  nature  of  foft  and  melancholy  mufic,  Ofllan  fays,  "  The 
"mufic  of  Carryl  was,  like  the  memory  of  joys  that  are  paft, 
•*  pleafant  and  mournful  to  the  foul."  This  is  happy  and  deli- 
cute.  Yet,  furely,  no  kind  of  mufic  has  any  refemblance  to  a  feel- 
ing of  the  mind,  fuch  as  the  memory  of  paft  joys.  Had  it  been 
compared  to  the  voice  of  the  nightingale,  or  the  murmur  of  the 
rl  ream,  as  It  would  have  been  by  fome  ordinary  poet,  the  likenefs 
would  have  been  more  HyiO:  ;  but,  by  founding  his  Simile  upon 
the  efFe£l  which  Carryl's  mufic  produced,  the  poet,  while  he 
t'onveys  a  very  tender  image,  gives  us,  at  the  fame  time,  a  much 
ftronger  impreflion  of  the  nature  and  ftrain  of  that  mufic  : 
*'  Like  the  memory  of  joys  that  are  paft,  pleafant  and  mourn- 
*'  fur  to  the  foul." 

In  general,  whether  Comparifons  be  founded  on  the  fimilitude 
of  the  two  objedls  compared,  or  on  fome  analogy  and  agreement 
ill  their  cffeds,  the  fundamental  requifiie  of  a  Comparifon  is, 
that  it  fliall  fcrve  to  illufLrate  the  objed,  for  the  fi^ke  of  which  it  is 

introduced. 


244  C  O  T*I  P  A  R  I  S  O  N.        Lect.  XVII. 

introduced,  and  to  give  us  a  ftronger  conception  of  it.  Some 
little  txcurficns  of  fancy  may  be  permitted,  in  puifuing  the 
Simile  ;  but  they  muft  never  deviate  far  from  the  principal  ob- 
ject. If  it  be  a  great  and  noble  one,  every  circumftance  in  the 
Comparifon  muft  tend  to  nggrandife  it ;  if.  it  be  a  beautiful  one, 
to  render  it  more  amiable  ;  if  terrible,  to  fill  us  with  more  awe* 
But  to  be  a  little  more  particular :  The  riiles  to  be  given  con- 
cerning Comparifons,  refpedl  chiefly  two  articles;  the  proprlt^ 
ty  of  their  introdu<tlion,  and.  the  nature  of  the  objects  whence 
they  are  taken.  Firft,  the  propriety  of  their  introduction. 
From  what  has  been  already  faid  of  Comparifons,  it  appears, 
that  they  are  not,  like  the  figures  of  which  I  treated  in  the 
laft  Le£lure,  the  language  of  ftrong  paiBon.  No ;  they  arc  the 
language  of  imagination  rather  th.m  of  paffion  ;  of  an  imagin- 
ation fprightly,  iiideed,  and  warmed  ;  but  undilturbcd  by  any. 
violent  or  agitating  emotion.  Strong  paflion  is  too  fevere  to  ad- 
mit this  play  of  fancy.  It  has  no  leifuve  to  caft  about  for  re- 
fcmbling  obje£l:s  j  it  dwells  ou  that  object  which  has  feized 
and  taken  poiTcfrion  of  the  foul.  It  is  too  much  occupied  and 
filled  by  it,  to  turn  its  view  afde,  or  to  fix  its  attention  on 
any  other  thing.  An  author,  therefore,  can  fcarcely  commit  a 
greater  fault,  than,  in  the  midft  of  paflion,  to  introduce  a 
fimile.  Metaphorical  expreffion  may  be  allowablein  fuch  a  fit- 
nation  ',  though  even  this  may  be  carried  too  far :  bui  the  pomp, 
and  folemnity  o£  a  formal  Comparifon  is  altogether  a  ftranger 
to  paffion.  it  changes  the  key.  in  a  moment ;  relaxes  and 
b^rings  down  the  aiind  ;  and  (hews  us  a  writer  perfectly  at  his 
cafe,  while  he  is  perfonating  fome  other,  who  is  fuppoftd  to  be 
under  the  torment  of  agitation.  Our  writers  of  trajiedies  are. 
very  apt  to  exr  here.  In  fonr»e  of  Mr.  Rowe\s  plays,  thtfc  flow- 
ers of  Similes  have  been  ftrewed  unfeafonaUy.  Kxt.  Addifon's 
Cato,  too,  is  juftly  cenfurable  in  this  rcfpeiSt ;  as,  M'hen  Forti- 
us, juft  after  Lucia  had  bid  him  farcwel  forever,  and  when  Pte 
ihould  naturally  have  been  reprefented  as  in  the  mofl  violent 
anguifii,  makes  his  reply  in  a  ftudied  and  aftecied  Comparifon : 

Thus  o'er  the  dying  lamp  th'  iinfteady  flame 
Hangs  quiv'i'ing  on  a  poil)t,  leaps  off  by  iils, 
And  falls  again,  as  loth  to  quit  its  hold. 
*rho\i  muft  not  go  ;  my  foul  iliil  hovers  o'er  tliee, 
And  can't  get  loofe.      ■ 

Every 


Lect.  XVTI.        comparison.  245 

Every  one  muft  be  fenfible,  that  this  is  quite  remote  from  the 
language  of  nature  on  fuch  occafions. 

Iloweyer,  as  Connparifon  is  not  the  (lyle  of  ftrong  pjaflion^^ 
fo  neither,  when  employed  for  embeliifliment,  is.  it  the  language 
of  a  mind  wliolly  unmoved.  It  is  a  figure  of  dignity,  and  al- 
ways requires  fome  elevation  in  the  fubje£t,  in  order  to  make 
it  proper :  for  it  fuppofes  the  imagination  to  be  uncommonly 
enlivened,  though  the  heart  be  not  agitated  by  pafiion.  In  a 
word,  the  proper  place  of  Comparifons  lies  in  the  middl'j  region 
between  the  highly  pathetic,  and  the  very  humble  ftyle..  I'his 
is  a  wide  field,  and  gives  ample  range  to  the  figure.  But  even 
this  field  we  mull  take  eare  not  to  ovcrllock  with  it.  For,  as 
was  before  faid,  it  is  a  fparkling  ornament ;  and  all  things  that 
fparkle,  dazzle  and  fatigue,  if  they  recur  too  often.  Similes 
fhould,  even  in  poetry,  be  ufed  with  moderation  ;  but  in  pror<2 
writings,  much  mote  :  otherwife,  the  ftyle  will  become  difguit- 
ingly  lulcious,  and  the  ornament  lofc  its  virtue  and  cfFe£fc. 

I  proceed,  next,  to  the  rules  that  relate  to  objecfts,  whence 
Comparifons  fhould  be  drav/n  :  fuppofing  them  introduced  ia 
their  proper  place. 

\n  the  firft  place,  they  maft  not  be  drawn  from  things,  wliich 
have  too  near  and  obvious  a  refemblance  to  the  obje£J:  with 
which  we  compare  them.  \  The  great  pleafure  of  the  a£l  of 
comparing  lies,  in  difcovering  likencii'es.  among  things  of  difTcr- 
ent  fpecies,  where  we  would  not,  at  the  firft  glance,  expefl  a  re- 
femblance. There  is  little  art  or  ingenuity  in  pointing  out  the 
refemblance  of  tv^;o  objects,  that  are  fo  much  akin,  or  lie  fo  near 
to  one  another  in  nature,  thai;  every  one  fees  they  mull  be  like. 
When  Mikoa  compares  Satan's  appearance,  after  his  fall,  to 
that  of  the  fun  fuffcring  an  ecliple,  and  affrighting  the  nations 
with  portentous  darknefs,  we  are  ftruck  with  the  happinel« 
and  the  dignity  of  the  fimilitade.  But,  when  he  compares 
five's  bower  in  Paradife,  to  the  arbour  of  Pomona  j  or  Eve  her- 
felf,  'to  a  dryad  or  wood-nymph,  we  receive  little  entertain- 
ment ;  as  every  one  fees,  that  one  arbour  muft,  of  courfe,  in 
fcveral  rcfpe£ls,  rcfemble  anotlier  arbour,  and  one  beautiful 
woman  another  beautiful  woman. 

Among  Similes,  faulty  through  too  great  obvioufnefs  of  the 
likeuefs,  we  muft  likevi'ifc  rank  thofe  which  are  taken  from  ol> 
jcds  become  trite  and  familial  ia  poetical  language.    Such 

are 


246  C  O  r»I  P  A  R  I  S  O  N.        Lect.  XVLL 

are  the  Similes  of  a  hero  to  a  lion,  of  a  perfon  in  forrow  to  a 
flower  drooping  its  head,  of  violent  paflion  to  a  tempefl:,  of 
chaflity  to  fnow,  of  virtue  to  the  fun  or  the  liars,  and  many 
more  of  this  kind,  v/itli  wliicli  we  are  fure  to  find  modern 
vvriters,  of  fecond  rate  genius,  abounding  plentifully  •,  handed 
down  from  every  writer  of  verfes  to  another,  as  by  h(*reditary 
right.  Thefe  Comparifons  were,  at  firft,  perhaps,  very  proper, 
for  the  purpofes  to  which  they  are  applied.  In  tlic  ancient 
©riginal  poets  who  took  them  directly  from  nature,  not  from 
their  predecefTors,  they  had  beauty.  But  they  are  now  beaten  ^ 
©ur  ears  are  fo  accuflomed  to  them,  that  they  give  no  amufe- 
ment  to  the  fancy.  There  is,  indeed,  no  mark  by  which  we  can 
more  readily  diflinguifli  a  poet  of  true  genius,  from  one  of  a 
barren  imagination,  than  by  the  ftrain  of  their  Comparifons. 
All  who  call  diemfelves  poets,  aiFe£V  them  :  but,  whereas,  a 
mere  verfifier  copies  no  new  image  from  nature,  which  appears^ 
to  his  uninventive  genius,  exhaufted  by  thofe  who  have  gone 
before  him,  and,  therefore,  contents  himfelf  with  humbly  follow- 
ing their  track  ;  to  an  author  of  real  fancy,  nature  feems  to  un- 
lock, fpontaneoufly,  her  hidden,  ftores  ;  and  the  eye,  "  quick 
*'  glancing  from  earth  to  heaven,"^  difcovers  new  fliapes  id 
forms,  new  likeneffes  between  objefts  unobferved-  before,  which 
render  his  Similes  original,  exprefTive,  and  lively. 

But,  in  the  fecond  place,  as  Comparifons  ought  not  to  be 
founded  on  likeneffes  too  obvious,  flill  lefs  ought  tliey  to  be 
founded  on  thofe  which  are  too  faint  and  renvate.  For  thefe, 
in  place  of  affifting,  flrain  the  fancy  to  comprehend  them,  and 
throw  no  light  upon  the  fubjeft.  It  is  alfo  to  be  obferved,  that 
a  Comparlfon,  which,  in  the  principal  circumflances,  carries  a 
fufiiciently  near  refemblance,  may  become  unnatural  and  ob- 
fcure,  if  pufhed  too  far.  Nothing  is  more  oppofite  to  the  de- 
lign  of  this  figure,  than  to  hunt  after  a  great  number  of  coinci- 
ttcnces  in  minute  points,  merely  to  {hov/  how  far  the  poet^s 
wit  can  ftretch  the  refemblance.  This  is  Mr.  Cowley's  com- 
mon fault  J  whofe  Comparifons  generally  run  out  fo  far,  as  io> 
become  rather  a  fludied  exercife  of  wit,  than  an  illuilration  of 
the  principal  obje£t.  We  need  only  open  his  works,  his  odes 
efpecisllv,  to  find  inflances  every  where. 

la 


Lect.  XVII.        C  O  ISI  P  A  R  I  S  O  N.  -147 

In  the  third  place,  the  objeft  from  which  a  Comparlfon  is 
drawn,  fliould  never  be  an  unknown  objeft,  or  one  of  which 
few  people  can  form  clear  ideas :  **  Ad  inferendam  rebus  lu- 
*'cem,"  fays  Quintiiian,  "repertse  funt  fimiUtudines.  Pra2- 
*'cipue,  igitur,  efl  cuftodiendum  ne  id  quod  firoilitudinis  gratia 
-*'  afcivimus,  aut  obfcurum  fit,  aut  ignotum.  Debet  enim  id  quod. 
**  illuftrandss  altcrius  rei  gratia  aflumitur,  ipfum  efle  clarius  eo 
**  quod  illuminatvir."*  Comparifons,  therefore,  founded  on  phi- 
iofophical  difcoveries,  or  on  any  thing  in  which  perfons  of  a  cer- 
tain trade  only,  or  a  certain  profeflion,  are  converfant,  attain  not ' 
their  proper  effefl.  They  fliouId  be  taken  from  thofe  illuflri- 
ous,  noted  obje£ls,  which  mod  of  the  readers  either  have  feen^ 
or  can  ftrongly  conceive.  This  leads  me  to  remark  a  fault  of 
which  moderii  poets  are  very  apt  to  be  guilty.  The  ancients 
took  their  Similes  from  that  face  of  nature,  and  that  clafs  of  ob- 
je£l:s,  with  which  they  and  their  readers  were  acquainted. 
Hence  lions,  and  wolves,  and  ferpents,  were  fruitful,  and  very 
proper  fources  of  Similes  amongil  them  ;  and  thefe  having  be- 
come a  fort  of  confecrated,  claflical  images,  are  very  commonly 
adopted  by  the  moderns  5  ir.jt'.dicioufly,  however,  for  the  propri- 
ety of  them  is  now  in  a  great  meafure  loft.  It  is  only  at  fecond 
Iiand,  and  by  defcription,  that  wc  are  acquainted  with  many  of 
thofe  obje6ls;  and,  to  moft  readers  of  poetry,  it  were  more  to 
the  purpofe,  to  defcribe  lions  or  ferpents,  by  Similes  taken  fromi 
men,  than  to  defcribe  men  by  lions.  Now-a-days,  we  can  much 
-eafier  form  the  conception  of  a  fierce  combat  between  two  men> 
than  between  a  bull  and  a  tyger.  Every  country  has  a  fcen- 
cry  pecsliar  to  itfelf,  and  the  imagery  of  every  good  poet  will 
exhibit  it.  The  introdu6lion  of  unknown  objcfts,  or  of  a  for- 
eign fcenery,  betrays  a  poet  copying,  not  after  nature,  but  from 
other  writers.     I  have  only  to  obferve  further, 

In  the  fourth  place,  that,  in  compofitions  of  a  ferious  or  el- 
evated kind,  SimiL  ,  fliould  never  be  taken  from  low  or  mean 
objedls.  Thefe  are  degrading  ;  whereas.  Similes  are  common- 
ly intended  to  embellifli,  and  to  dignify  :  and  therefore,  unlefs 

in 

*  "  Comparifons  have  been  introduced  into  difcourfc,  for  the  fake  of  tlirow- 
"infr  light  on  the  fubjeiSt.  Wc  miift,  therefore,  be  much  on  our  guard,  net  to 
"  employ,  as  the  ground  of  our  Simile,  any  ohjetfl  which  is  either  ohfcure  or  im- 
♦'  known.  That  iurely,  which  is  ufcd  for  the  purpofe  of  illuftrating  fomc  other 
«'  thiui;,  ought  to  be  more  obvious  and  plain,  than  the  thing  intended  to  he 
« illuftrated." 


24«  ANTITHESIS.         Lrxr.  XVII. 

inburlefque  writings,  or  wliere  Similes  arc  introduced  purpofe- 
ly  to  vilify  anddiminifli  an  objccb,  mean  ideas  fliould  never  be 
prcfcnted  to  us.  Some  of  Homer's  Comparifons  have  been  tax- 
ed, without  reafon,  on  this  account.  For  it  is  to  be  remember- 
ed, that  the  meannefs  or  dignity  of  objects,  depends,  in  a  great 
degree,  on  the  ideas  and  manners  of  the  age  wherein  we  Jive. 
Many  Similes,  therefore,  drawn  from  the  incidents  of  rural  life, 
which  appear  low  to  us,  had  abundance  of  dignity  in  thofe  fim- 
pler  ages  of  antiquity. 

I  have  now  confideredfuch  of  the  figures  of  fpeech  as  feem- 
ed  mod  -to  merit  a  full  and  particular  diicuffion  :  Metaphor, 
Hyperbole,  Perfonification,  A.poftrophe,  and  Comparifon.  A 
few  more  yet  remain  to  be  mentioned  ;  the  proper  ufe  and  con- 
duct of  which  will  be  eafily  underftood  from  the  principles  al- 
ready laid  dov/n. 
I  As  Comparifon  is  founded  on  the  refemblance,  fo  Antlthefis 
on  the  contrafl:  or  oppofition  of  two  obje£ls.  Contraft  has  al- 
ways this  efFedl,  to  make  each  of  the  contrafted  obje(3:s  appear 
in  the  flrongeft  light.  White,  for  inftance,  never  appears  fo 
briglit,  as  when  it  is  oppofed  to  black ;  and  when  both  are  view- 
ed together.  Antithefis,  therefore,  may,  on  many  occafions, 
be  employed  to  advantage,  in  order  to  ftrengthen  the  impref- 
Ijon  which  we  intend  that  any  obje£l  fliould  make.  '  Thus 
Cicero  In  his  oration  for  Milo,  reprefenting  the  improbability  of 
Milo's  forming  a  defign  to  take  away  the  life  of  Clodius,  at  a 
time  when  all  circumftances  were  unfavourable  to  fuch  a  de- 
Cgn,  and  after  he  had  let  other  opportunities  flip  when  he 
could  have  executed  the  fame  defign,  if  he  had  formed  it,  with 
much  more  eafe  and  fafety,  heightens  our  convi£lion  of  this 
improbability  by  a  fkllful  ufe  of  this  figure :  **  Quem  igitur 
**  cum  omnium  gratia  interficere  noluit,  hunc  voluit  cum  aliquo- 
**  rum  querela?  Oucm  jure, quem  loco,  quem  tempore, quem  im- 
"pune,  non  eft  aufus,  hunc  injuria,  iniqu.>  loco,  alieno  tem- 
*'  pore,  periculo  capitis,  non  dubitavit  occidere  ?"*     In  order  to 

render 

•  "  Is  it  credible  that,  when  he  declined  putting  Clodius  to  death  with  the 
•'  conftnt  of  all,  he  would  choofe  to  do  it  with  the  difapprobatiou  of  many  ? 
"  Can  you  believe  that  the  perfon  wh.om  he  fcrupled  to  ilay,  when  he  mii^ht 
•'  have  done  fo  with  full  juRice,  in  a  convenient  place,  at  a  proper  time,  with 
•'  fecure  impunity,  he  made  no  fcruple  to  murder  againll;  iuftice,  in  an  unfa- 
"  vourable  place,  at  an  unfeafonable  time,  and  at  the  rilque  pf  capital  cou* 
••  dcmaatiou  t" 


Lect.  XVII.         ANTITHESIS.  249 

render  an  Antithefis  more  complete,  It  is  always  of  advantage, 
that  the  words  and  members  of  the  fentence,  exprefling  the 
contrafted  obje£ls,  be,  as  in  this  inftance  of  Cicero's,  fimilarly 
conftruited,  and  made  to  correfpond  to  each  other.  This  leads 
us  to  remark  the  contraft  more,  by  fetting  the  things  which  we 
oppofe  more  clearly  over  againll  each  other ;  in  the  fame 
manner  as  when  we  contrail  a  black  and  a  white  objedl,  in  or- 
der to  perceive  the  full  difference  of  their  colour,  we  would 
choofe  to  have  both  objedto  of  the  fame  bulk,  and  placed  in  the 
fame  light.  Their  refemblance  to  each  other,  in  certain  cir- 
cumftances,  makes  their  difagrcement  in  others  more  palpable. 
At  the  fame  time,  I  mull  obferve,  that  the  frequent  ufe  of 
Antitheiis,  efpecially  where  the  oppolition  in  the  words  is  nice 
and  quaint,  is  apt  to  render  ftyle  difagreeable.  Such  a  fen- 
tence as  the  following,  from  Seneca,  does  very  well,  where  it 
Hands  alone :  "  Si  quern  volueris  effe  divitem,  non  eft  quod 
*'  augeas  divitias,  fed  minuas  cupiditates."*  Or  this  :  "Si  ad 
*'  naturam  vives,  nunquam  eris  pauper  j  fi  ad  opinionem, 
*'  nunquam  dives."f  A  maxim,  or  moral  faying,  properly 
enough  receives  this  form  ;  both  becaufe  it  is  fuppofed  to  be 
the  fruit  of  meditation,  and  becaufe  i^  is  defigned  to  be  engrj^y- 
en  on  the  memory,  which  recals  it  more  eafily  by  the  help  of 
fuch  contrafted  exprelTions.  But  where  a  ftring  of  fuch  fen- 
tences  fucceed  each  other  ;  where  this  becomes  an  author's 
favourite  and  prevailing  manner  of  exprefling  himfelf,  his  ftyle 
is  faulty  5  and  it  is  upon  this  account  Seneca  has  been  often, 
and  juftly,  cenfured.  Such  a  ftyle  appears  too  ftudied  and  la- 
boured ;  it  gives  us  the  impreflion  of  an  author  attending  more 
to  his  manner  of  faying  things,  than  to  the  things  themfelves 
which  he  fays.  Dr.  Young,  though  a  writer  of  real  genius,  was 
too  fond  of  Antithefes.  In  his  Eftimate  of  Human  Life,  we 
find  whole  pages  that  run  in  fuch  a  ftrain  as  this  :  "  The  pea- 
*'  fant  complains  aloud ;  the  courtier  in  fecret  repines.  In 
*'  want,  what  diftrefs  .''  in  affluence,  what  fatiety  ?  The  great 

"  are 

•  "  If  you  feek  to  make  one  rich,  ftudy  not  to  increafe  his  florcs,  but  to  di- 
«minifl\  his  defines.  " 

•f  "  If  you  regulate  your  dchres  according  to  the  ftandard  of  nature,  you  will 
"  never  be  pour  ;  if  according  to  the  Haudard  of  opinion,  you  will  ucver  bs 
"  rich," 


250  INTERROGATION    AND      Lect.  XVII. 

"  are  under  as  much  difficulty  to  expend  with  pleafure,  as  the 
**  mean  to  labour  with  fuccefs.  The  ignorant,  through  ill- 
*'  grounded  hope,  are  difappointed ;  the  knowing;,  through 
*'  knowledge,  defpoud.  Ignorance  occafions  millake  •,  miflake, 
*•  difappointment ;  and  difappointment  is  mifcry.  Knowledge, 
*'  on  the  other  hand,  gives  true  judgrr>ent ;  and  true  judgment  of 
*'  human  things,  gives  a  demonllration  of  their  infuiHciency  to 
**  our  peace."  There  is  too  much  glitter  in  fuch  a  ftyle  as  this, 
to  pleafe  long.  We  are  fatigued,  by  attending  to  fuch  quaint 
and  artificial  fentenci^s  often  repeated. 

There  is  another  fort  of  Antithefis,  the  beauty  of  which  con- 
fifls  in  furprifing  us  by  the  unexpected  contrails  of  things 
which  it  brings  together.  Much  wit  may  be  fhewn  in  this ; 
but  it  belongs  wholly  to  pieces  of  profcfled  wit  and  humour, 
and  can  find  no  place  in  grave  compofiiions.  Mr.  Pope,  who 
is  remarkably  fond  of  Antithefis,  is  often  happy  in  this  u(e  of 
the  figui-e.     So,  in  his  Rape  of  the  Lock  : 

Whether  the  nymph  fliall  break  Diana's  law, 
Or  fonie  frail  China  jar  receive  a  Haw  ; 
Or  ftain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade  ; 
Foiget  her  prayers,  or  mils  a  niafqutrade  ; 
•  Or  lofe  her  heart,  or  neck'ace,  at  a  biitl, 

Or  whether  Hcav'n  has  doom'd  that  Shock  muft  fall.      \ 

"What  is  called  the  point  of  an  epigram,  confifls,  for  moft  part, 
in  fome  Antithefis  of  this  kind  •,  furprifing  us  with  the  fmart 
and  unexpedled  turn,  which  it  gives  to  the  thought ;  and  in 
the  fewer  words  it  is  brought  out,  it  is  always  the  happier. 

Comparifons  and  Antithefis  arc  figures  of  a  cool  nature  ;  the 
produiSlions  of  imagination,  not  of  paflion.  Interrogations  and 
Exclamations,  of  which  I  am  next  to  fpcak,  are  paffionate  figures. 
They  are,  indeed,  on  fo  many  occafions,  the  native  language  of 
paflion,  that  their  ufe  is  extremely  frequent ;  and  in  ordinary 
converfation,  when  men  arc  heated,  they  prevail  as  much  as  in 
the  moll  fublime  oratory.  ■  The  unfigured,  literal  ufe  of  Inter- 
rogation, is  to  aflc  a  quellion  ;  but  when  men  arc  prompted  by 
paffion,  whatever  they  would  affirm,  or  deny  with  great  vehe- 
mence, they  naturally  put  in  the  form  of  a  queflion  ;  expreff- 
ing  thereby  the  ilrongcft  confidence  of  the  truth  of  their  own 
(entiment,  and  appealing  to  their  hearers  for  the  impoflibility  of 

the 


Lect.XVII.         exclamation.  2;i 

tlie  contrary.  Thus,  in  fcripture  :  "  God  is  not  a  man,  that  he 
"  fhould  lie,  neither  the  Son  of  Man,  that  he  fliould  repent.  Hath 
•*  he  faid  it  ?  and  fliall  he  not  do  it  ?  Hath  he  fpoken  it  ?  and  fl)all 
*'  he  not  maice  it  good  ?"*  So,  Demo/thenes,  '.iddrefTnig  hini- 
felf  to  the  Athenians  :  "Tell  me,  will  you  ftill  go  about  and  afk 
**  one  another,  what  news  ?  What  can  be  more  aftonifl:ing  news 
*'  than  this,  that  the  man  of  Macedon  makes  war  upon  the 
**  Athenians,  and  difpofcs  of  the  affairs  of  Greece  ?  Is  Philip 
*'  dead  ?  No,  but  he  is  Tick.  What  fignifies  it  to  you  whether 
**  he  be  dead  or  alive  ?  For,  if  any  thing  happens  to  this  Phil- 
**  ip,  you  will  immediately  raife  up  another."  All  this,  deliver- 
ed without  Interrogation,  had  been  faint  and  ineffcdlual  ;  but 
the  warmth  and  eagernefs  which  this  quciHoning  method  ex- 
prefles,  awakens  the  hearers,  and  ftrikes  them  v/ith  much  great- 
er force. 

Interrogation  may  often  be  applied  with  propriety,  in  the 
courfe  of  no  higher  emotions  than  naturally  arife  in  purfuing 
fome  clofe  and  carnell  rcafoning.  v  But  Exclamations  belong  on- 
ly to  flronger  emotions  of  the  mind  5  to  furprife,  admiration, 
anger,  joy,  grief,  and  the  hke  : 

Heu  pietas  !  heu  prifca  fides  J  invitftaque  bello 
Dexter  a  ! 

Both  Interrogation  and  Exclamation,  and,  indeed,  all  pafllonatc 
figures  of  fpcech,  operate  upon  us  by  means  of  fympathy.  Sym- 
patliy  is  a  very  powerful  and  extenfive  principle  in  pur  nature, 
difpofing  us  to  enter  into  every  feeling  and  paflion,  which  we 
behold  exprefled  by  others.  Hence,  a  fingle  perfon  coming  in- 
to company  with  flrong  marks,  either  of  melancholy  or  joy, 
upon  his  countenance,  will  diflufe  that  pr.(rion,  in  a  moment, 
through  the  whole  circle.  Hence,  in  a  great  crowd,  pafiions  are 
fo  eafdy  caught,  and  fo  fad  fpread,  by  that  powerful  contagion 
which  the  animaircd  looks,  cries,  and  geflurcs  of  a  multitude 
never  fail  to  carry.  Nov^^  Interrogations  and  Exclamations,  be- 
ing natural  Hgns  of  a  moved  and  agitated  mind,  always,  wlieu 
they  are  properly  ufed,  difpofc  us  to  fympathifc  with  the  dif« 
pcHtions  of  thofe  who  ufe  them,  and  to  feel  as  they  feel. 

Fronv 

•  Nambtrs,  chap,  isiii.  ver.  19. 


■2^2  INTERROGATION,   Sccl     Lect.XVII. 

From  this  it  follows,  that  the  great  rule  with  regard  to  the 
condu<£t  of  fuch  figures  is,  that  the  writer  attend  to  the  manner 
in  which  nature  di£lates  to  us  to  exprefs  any  emotion  or  paf- 
fjon,  and  that  he  give  his  lan^juage  that  turn,  and  no  other  ; 
above  all,  that  he  never  afFe£l  the  ftyle  of  a  pafRon  which  he  does 
not  feel.  With  Interrogations  he  may  ufe  a  good  deal  of  free- 
dom y  thefe,  as  above  obferved,  falling  in  fo  much  with  the 
ordinary  courfe  of  language  and  reafoning,  even  when  no  great 
vehemence  is  fuppofed  to  have  place  in  the  mind.  But,  with 
refpedl:  to  Exclamations,  he  muft  be  more  referved.  Nothing 
has  a  worfe  efFe£t  than  the  frequent  and  unfeafonable  ufe  of 
them.  Rav/,  juvenile  writers  imagine,  that,  by  pouring  them 
fortli  often,  they  render  tlieir  compofitions  warm  and  animated. 
Whereas  quite  the  contrary  follows.  They  render  it  frigid  to 
cxcefs.  When  an  author  is  always  calling  upon  us  to  enter  in- 
to tranfports  which  he  has  faid  nothing  to  infpiie,  we  are  both 
difgufted  and  enraged  at  him.  He  raifes  no  fympathy ;  for  he 
gives  us  no  paflion  of  his  own,  in  v/hich  we  can  take  part.  He 
gives  us  words,  and  not  pafTion  j  and  of  courfe,  can  raife 
no  paflion,  unlefs  that  of  indignation.  Hence,  I  incline  to 
think,  he  was  not  much  miftaken,  M'ho  faid,  that  when,  on 
looking  into  a  book,  he  found  the  pages  thick  befpangled  with 
the  point  which  is  called,  "  Pun6lum  admirationis,"  he  judged 
this  to  be  a  fufficient  reafon  for  his  laying  it  afide.  And,  indeed, 
were  it  not  for  the  help  of  this  "  pun£l"um  admirationis,"  with 
which  many  writers  of  the  rapturous  kind  fo  much  abound,  one 
would  be  often  at  a  lofs  to  difcover,  whether  cr  not  it  was  Ex- 
clamation which  they  aimed  at.  For,  it  has  now  become  a 
fafhion,  among  thefe  writers,  to  fubjoin  points  of  admiration  to 
fentences,  which  contain  nothing  but  fimple  aflirmations,  or 
pvopofitions  5  as  if,  by  an  affected  method  of  pointing,  they 
could  transform  them  in  the  reader's  mind  into  high  figures  of 
eloquence.  Much  akin  to  this,  is  another  contrivance  prac- 
tifed  by  fome  writers,  of  fcparating  almoft  all  the  members  of 
the  fentences  from  each  other,  by  blank  lines ;  as  if,  by  fetthig 
them  thus  afunder,  they  bellowed  fome  fpecial  importance  upon 
them  ;  and  required  us,  in  going  along,  to  make  a  paufe  at  every 
other  word,  and  weigh  it  well.  This,  I  think,  may  be  called 
a  Typographical  Figure  of  Speech.     Neither,  indeed,  fince  wo 

have 


Lect.XVII.  vision.  253 

have  been  led  to  mentioTi  the  arts  of  writers  for  increafing  the 
importance  of  their  words,  does  another  cuflom,  which  pre- 
vailed very  much  fome  time  ap;o,  feem  worthy  of  imitation  ;  I 
mean  that  of  diilinguifhing  the  fignificant  words,  in  every  fen- 
tence,  by  Itahc  characters.  On  fome  occafions,  it  is  very  proper 
to  ufe  fuch  diflin6tious.  But  when  we  carry  them  fo  far,  as 
to  mark  with  them  every  fuppofed  emphatical  word,  thcfe  words 
are  apt  to  muUiply  fo  faft  in  the  authors  imagination,  that  every 
page  is  crowed  with  Italics  ;  which  can  produce  no  efFe£l  what- 
ever, but  to  hurt  the  eye,  and  create  confufion.  Indeed,  if  the 
fenfe  point  out  the  mofl  emphatical  expreinons,  a  variation  in 
the  type,  efpecially  when  occurring  fo  frequently,  will  give  fmall 
aid.  And,  accordingly,  the  moft  maflerly  writers,  of  late,  have, 
with  good  reafon,  laid  afide  all  thofe  feeble  props  of  fignificancy, 
and  trufted  wholly  to  the  weight  of  their  fentiments  for  com- 
manding attention.     But  to  return  from  this  digrefficn  : 

Another  Figure  of  Speech,  proper  only  to  animated  and 
warm  compofition,  is  what  fome  critical  writers  call  Vifion  ; 
when,  in  place  of  relating  fomething  that  is  pafl,  we  ufe  the 
prefent  tenfe,  and  defcribe  it  as  actually  pafling  before  our  eyes. 
Thus  Cicero,  in  his  fourth  oration  againft  Catiline :  "  Videor 
*'  enim  mihi  banc  urbem  •  videre,  lucem  orbis  terrarum  atque 
"  arcem  omnium  gentium,  fubito  uno  incendio  concidentem  ; 
"  cerno  animo  fepulta  in  patria  miferos  atque  infepultos  acer- 
**  vos  civium  ;  verfatur  mihi  ante  oculos  afpe£tus  Cethegi,  et 
*'  furor,  in  veftra  csede  bacchantis."*  This  manner  of  defcrip- 
tion  fuppofes  a  fort  of  enthufiafm,  which  carries  tlie  perfon  who 
defcribes  it  in  fome  meafure  out  of  himfelf;  and,  when  well 
executed,  muft  needs  imprefs  the  reader  or  hearer  flrongly,  by 
the  force  of  that  fympathy  which  I  have  before  explained.  But, 
in  order  to  a  fucccfsful  execution,  it  requires  an  uncommonly 
warm  imagination,  and  fuch  a  happy  fclcclion  of  circumftances, 
as  (hall  make  us  think  we  fee  before  our  eyes  the  fcene  that  is 
defcribed.  Otherwife,  it  fliares  the  fame  fate  with  all  feeble  at- 
tempts  towards    pafTiouate  figures  j  that  of  throwing  ridicule 

upon 

*  "  1  fecm  to  myftif  to  behold  this  city,  the  ornament  of  the  earth,  and  the 
"  capital  of  all  nations,  liicidenly  involved  in  one  confla;;ration.  I  fee  before 
"  mc  the  flaughtered  heaps  of  citizens  lying  unhuried  in  the  midft  of  their 
"  ruined  country.  Tlie  furious  countenance  of  Cethcgus  riles  to  my  view, 
•'  while  with  a  lavage  joy  lie  is  triumphing  in  your  milcrics." 


-54  AMPLIFICATION.       Lect.  XVIT. 

upon  \hc  author,  and  lea\-lng  the  reader  more  cool  and  uninter- 
efled  thnn  he  was  before.  The  fame  obfervations  are  to  be  ap- 
plied to  Repetition,  Sufpenfion,  Corrc£lion,  and  many  more  of 
thofe  figurative  forms  of  Speech,  which  rhetoricians  have  enu- 
merated among  the  beauties  of  eloquence.  They  are  beautiful, 
or  not,  exaflly  in  proportion  as  they  are  native  expreflions  of 
the  fentiment  or  palhon  intended  to  be  heightened  by  them. 
Let  nature  and  pafhon  always  fpeak  their  own  language,  and 
they  v/ill  fuggelt  figures  in  abundance.  But  when  we  feck  to 
counterfeit  a  warmth  which  we  do  not  feel,  no  figures  will 
cither  fupply  the  defc£l:,  or  conceal  the  impofture. 

There  is  one  figure  (and  I  fliall  mention  no  more)  of  frequent 
life  among  all  public  fpeakers,  particularly  at  the  bar,  which 
Quintilian  infifts  upon  confiderably,  and  calls  Amplification. 
It  confills  in  an  artful  exaggeration  of  all  the  circumllances  of 
fome  objedl  or  a£lion  which  we  want  to  place  in  a  fbrong  light, 
either  a  good  or  a  bad  one.  It  is  not  fo  properly  one  figure, 
as  the  Ikilful  management  of  feveral  which  we  make  to  tend  to 
one  point.  It  may  be  carried  on  by  a  proper  ufe  of  magnifying 
or  extenuating  terms,  by  a  regular  enumeration  of  particulars, 
or  by  throwing  together,  as  into  one  mafs,  a  crowd  of  circum- 
ftances  j  by  faggeding  comparifons  alfo  with  things  of  a  like 
riatnre.  But  the  principal  inftrument  by  which  it  works,  is  by 
^  Climax,  or  a  gradual  rife  of  one  circumftance  above  another, 
till  our  idea  be  raifed  to  the  utmoft.  I  fpoke  formerly  of  » 
Climax  in  found  j  a  Climax  in  fenfe,  when  well  carried  on,  is- 
a  figure  which  never  fails  to  amplify  ftrongly.  The  common 
example  of  this,  is  that  noted  paflage  in  Cicero  which  every 
fchool-boy  knows  :  "  Facinus  eft  vincire  civem  Roman um  •,  fce- 
"  lus  verberare,  prope  parricidium,  necare  ;  quid  dieam  in  cru- 
•*  cem  tollere  :"*  I  fl^iall  give  an  inftance  from  a  printed  plead- 
ing of  a  famous  Scotch  lawyer,  Sir  George  M'Kenzie.  It  is 
m  a  charge  to  the  jury,  in  the  cafe  of  a  woman  accufed  of  mur- 
dering her  own  child.  "  Gentlemen,  if  one  man  had  any  hov/ 
*  flain  another,  if  an  adverfary  had  killed  his  cppofer,  or  a 
**  woman  occafioned  the  deatli  of  her  enemy,  even  tliefe  crim- 

"  inals 

*  "  It  is  a  crime  to  put  a  Roman  clti?;cn  in  bonds  ;  it  is  the  height  of  guift 
"  to  fcourge  him  ;  little  Ic-fs  than  parricide  to  put  him  to  death.  Wiiat  nacie 
"  then  fliall  I  give  to  crtfcit'viiig  iiiiar' 


Lect.XVII.  C    L    I    I^I     a    X.  zss 

*'  inals  would  have  been  capitally  punifhed  by  the  Cornelian 
**  law  :  but,  if  this  guiltlefs  infant,  who  could  make  no  enemy, 
**  had  been  murdered  by  its  owji  nurfe,  What  punilhments 
**  would  not  then  the  mother  have  demanded  ?  With  what  cries 
**  and  exclamations  would  (he  hav^  fluimed  your  ears  ?  What 
**  fliall  \vc  fay  then,  when  a  woman,  guilty  of  homicide,  a  moth- 
*'  er,  of  the  murder  of  her  innocent  child,  hath  comprifcd  all 
"  thofc  mifdeeds  in  one  fingle  crime  ;  a  crime,  In  its  own  na-« 
*'  ture,  detcftable ;  in  a  woman  prodigious;  in  a  mother,  in- 
**  credible ;  and  perpetrated  again  ft  6iie  whofe  age  called  for 
*'  compnfTion,  whofe  near  relation  claimed  afFeclion,  and  whole 
*'  innocence  deferred  the  higheft  favour."  I  muft  take  notice, 
however,  that  fuch  regular  Climaxes  as  thefe,  though  they  have 
confiderable  beauty,  have,  at  the  fame  time,  no  fmall  appear- 
ance of  art  and  lludy ;  and,  therefore,  though  they  may  be 
remitted  into  formal  harangues,  yet  they  fpeak  not  the  language 
of  great  earneftncfs  and  paffion,  which  feldom  proceed  by  Iteps 
fo  regular.  Nor,  indeed,  for  the  purpofes  of  elTertual  perfua- 
fion,  are  they  likely  to  be  fo  fuccefsful,  as  an  arrangement  of 
circumftances  in  a  lefs  artificial  order.  For,  when  much  art 
appears,  we  are  always  put  on  our  guard  againft  the  deceits  of 
eloquence  ;  but  when  a  fpeaker  has  reafoned  ftrongly,  and  by 
force  of  argument,  has  made  good  his  main  point,  he  may  then, 
taking  advantage  of  tht-  favourable  bent  of  our  minds,  make 
ufe  of  fuch  artificial  figures  to  confirm  our  belief,  and  to  warm 
our  minds. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE         XVIII. 


FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  GENERAL  CHARAC- 
TERS OF  SEYLE— DIFFUSE,  CONCISE— FEEBLE, 
NERVOUS— DRY,  PLAIN,  NEAT,  ELEGANT, 
.fLOWERY. 

XI AVING  treated,  at  confiderable  length,  of  the  Fig- 
ures of  Speech,  of  their  origin,  of  their  nature,  and  of  the 
management  of  fuch  of  them  as  are  important  enough  to  re- 
quire a  particular  difcuffion,  before  finally  difmifiing  this  fub- 
je<Sl,  I  think  it  incumbent  on  me,  to  make  fome  obfervations 
concerning  the  proper  ufe  of  Figurative  Language  in  general. 
Thefe,  indeed,  I  have,  in  pait,  already  anticipated.  But,  as 
great  errors  are  often  committed  in  this  part  of  Style,  ef- 
pecially  by  young  writers,  it  may  be  of  ufe  that  I  bring  togeth- 
er, under  one  view,  the  moll  material  diredlions  on  this  head. 
I  begin  with  repeating  an  obfervation,  formerly  made,  that 
neither  all  tlie  beauties,  nor  even  the  chief  beauties  of  compo- 
fition,  depend  upon  Tropes'  and  Figures.  Some  of  the  moil 
fublime  and  molt  pathetic  paiTages  of  the  moft  admired  authors, 
both  in  profc  and  poetry,  are  exprefled  in  the  moft  fimple  Style, 
without  any  figure  at  all  j  inftances  of  which  I  have  before 
given.  On  the  other  hand,  a  compofition  may  abound  with 
thefe  (ludied  ornaments  ;  the  language  may  be  artful,  fplendid, 
and  highly  figured,  and  yet  the  compofition  be  on  the  whole 
frigid  and  unafFedling.  Not  to  fpeak  of  lentiment  and  thought, 
which  conftitute  the  real  and  lafting  merit  of  any  work,  if  the 
Style  be  ItifF  and  affe£ted,  if  it  be  deficient  in  perfpicuity  or  pre- 
cifion,  or  in  eafe  and  neatnefs,  all  the  Figures  that  can  be  em- 
ployed will  never  render  it  agreeable  :  they  may  dazzle  a 
vulgar,  but  will  never  pleafe  a  judicious,  eye.      ^ 

In 


Lect.  XVIII.      FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  257 

In  the  fecond  place,  figures,  in  order  to  be  benutiful,  mud 
always  rife  naturally  froni  the  fubjedt.  I  have  ftiown  th:nt  all 
of  them  are  the  language  eith3r  of  Imagination,  or  of  PafTion  ; 
fome  of  them  fuggefted  by  Imagination,  when  it  is  awakened 
and  fprlgiitly,  fuch  as  Metaphors  and  Comparifons  ;  others  by 
Paflion  or  more  heated  emotion,  fuch  as  Perfonifications  and 
Apoflrophes.  Of  courfe,  they  are  beautiful  then  only,  when 
they  are  prompted  by  fancy,  or  by  paffion.  They  mud  rife  of 
their  own  accord  ;  they  mufl  flow  from  a  mind  warmed  by  the 
objecfl  wliich  it  feeks  to  defcribc  ;  we  fliould  never  interrupt 
the  courfe  of  thought  to  call  about  for  figures.  If  they  be 
fought  after  coolly,  and  faftcned  on  as  defigned  ornaments, 
they  will  have  a  miferable  eirc(fl.  It  is  a  very  erroneous  idea, 
which  many  have  of  the  orn.iments  of  Style,  as  if  they  were 
things  detached  from  the  fu1;je6l,  and  that  could  be  ituck  to 
it,  like  lace  upon  a  coat  ;  this  is  indeed, 

Piirpvircus  late  qui  fpiendeat  unus  ct  alter 

Afl'uitur  pannus.* Ars  Poet. 

And  it  is  this  falfe  Idea  which  has  often  brought  attention  to 
the  beauties  of  writing  into  difrepute.  Whereas,  the  rt^al  and 
proper  ornaments  of  Style  are  wrought  into  the  fubftancfj  of  it. 
They  flow  in  the  fame  ftream  with  the  current  of  thought.  A 
writer  of  genius  conceives  his  fubjeci  ftrongly  ;  his  imaghiation 
is  filleil  and  imprefled  with  It  ;  and  pours  Itfclf  forth  in  tiiiit 
Figurative  Language  which  imagination  naturally  fpeakj.  He 
puts  on  no  emotion  which  his  fubjedl  does  not  raife  in  hixn  ; 
he  fpeaks  as  he  feels  ;  but  his  Style  will  be  beautiful,  becaufe 
his  feelings  are  lu'ely.  On  occafions,  when  fancy  is  languid, 
or  finds  nothing  to  roufe  it,  we  ftiould  never  attempt  to  hunt 
for  figures.  We  then  work,  as  it  is  faid>  '*  invita  Minerva  ;'* 
fuppofing  figures  invented,  they  will  have  the  appearance  of 
being  forced  ;  and  in  this  cafe,  they  had  much  better  be  wanted. 
In  the  third  place,  even  when  imagination  prompts,  and  the 
fubjeiSl  naturally  gives  rife  to  figures,  theymuft,  however,  not 
be  employed  too  frequently. '  In  all  beauty,  "fimplex  munditiis/' 

is 

•  "  Shreds  of  purple  with  broad  luftrc  ihiae, 
"  Sew'd  on  your  poem."  FxANCzs. 


253  FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.      Lect.  XVIII. 

is  a  capital  quality.  Nothing  derogates  more  from  the  weight 
and  dignity  of  any  compofition,  than  too  great  attention  to  or- 
namtmt.  When  the  ornaments  coft  labour,  that  labour  always 
appears  5  thou;.;h  they  (hould  coft  us  none,  ftill  the  reader  or 
hearer  may  be  furfeited  with  them  ;  and  when  they  come  too 
thick,  they  give  the  impreffion  of  a  light  and  frothy  genius, 
that  evaporates  in  fnew,  rather  than  brings  forth  what  is  folid. 
The  direcflions  of  the  ancient  critics,  on  this  head,  are  full  of 
good  fenfe,  and  deferve  careful  attention.  "  Voluptatibus  max- 
*'  imis,"  fays  Cicero,  de  Orat.  L.  iii.  "faftidium  finitimum  eft  in 
**  rebus  omnibus  ;  quo  hoc  minus  in  oratione  miremur.  In- 
*' qua  vel  ex  poetis,  vel  oratoribus  pofTumus  judicare,  concin- 
*'  nan:,  ornatam,  feftivam  fine  intermiffione,  quamvis  claris  fit 
**  coloribus  pi<^a,  vel  poefis,  vel  oratio,  non  pofle  in  deledla- 
"  tione  efle  diuturna.  Quare,  bene  et  prceclare,  quamvis  no- 
**  bis  f;£pe  dicatur,  belle  et  feftive  nimium  fiepe  nolo."*  To 
the  fame  purpofe,  are  the  excellent  directions  with  which 
Quintilian  concludes  his  difcourfe  concerning  figures,  L.  ix.  C. 
3.  "  Ego  illud  de  iis  figuris  qu?e  vere  fiunt,  adjiciam  breviter, 
**  ficatorarfnt  orationem  opportune  pofitae,  ita  ineptiflimas  efTe 
*' cut-'immodice  petuntur.  Sunt,  qui  neglecSto  rerum  pon- 
*'  dcrt  ct  viribus  fententiarum,  fi  vel  inania  verba  in  hos  modos 
**  depravarunt,  fummos  fe  judicant  artifices  ;  idcoque  non  de- 
*'  finunt  eas  neflere  ;  quas  fine  fententia  fedlare,  tarn  eft  ridic- 
"  uluin  quam  qujerere  habitum  geftumque  fine  corpore.  Nc 
**  hse  quidem  qux  retXx  fiunt,  denfandx  funt  nimis.  Scien- 
*'  dum  imprimis  quid  quifque  poftulet  locus,  quid  perfona, 
*'  quid  tempus.  Major  enim  pars  harum  figurarum  pofita  eft 
*'  in  deledlatione.  Ubi  vero,  atrocitate,  invidia,  miferarione 
*<  pugnandum  eft  ;  quis  ferat  verbis  contrapofitis,  et  confimili- 
**busj  Sc  pariter  cadentibus,  irafcentem,  flentem,  rogantem  ? 
*' Cum  in  his  rebus,  cura  verborum  deroget  affe<ilibu6  fidem  ; 

"et 

•  "  In  all  human  things,  difguft  borders  fo  nearly  on  the  mofl  lively  pleaf- 
«  ures,  that  we  uccd  not  be  furprifed  to  find  this  hold  in  eloquence.  From 
*«  reading  cither  poets  or  orators,  we  may  eHfiiy  fatisfy  ourfc;lvcs,  that  neither 
"  a  poem  nor  an  oration,  which,  without  intermiilion,  is  Hiowy  and  fparkling, 
*'can  pleafe  vt.->  long.  Vheret'ore,  though  we  may  willi  for  the  frequent  prail'e 
"  cf  .haviiiag  exprclled  ourfLlves  well  and  properly,  we  fliO'Jld  iao.t  covet  repeat- 
"  td  applaufe,  for  being  bright  and  fpleiidid." 


Lect.  XVIII.     FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  259 

**  et  ubicunque  ars  oftentatur,  Veritas  abefle  videatur."*  After 
thefe  judicious  and  ufeful  obfervations,  I  have  no  more  to  add, 
on  this  fubie£l;,  except  this  admonition  : 

In  the  fourth  place,  that,  vfithout  a  genius  for  Figurative 
Language,  none  {hould  attempt  if.  Imagination  is  a  power  not 
to  be  acquired  ;  it  mud  be  derived  from  nature.  \  Its  redun- 
dancies we  may  prune,  its  deviations  we  may  correft,  its  fphere 
we  may  enlarge  ;  but  the  faculty  itfelf  we  cannot  create  :  and 
all  efforts  towards  a  metaphorical  ornamented  ftyle,  if  we  arc 
deftitute  of  the  proper  genius  for  it,  will  prove  awkward  and 
difgufting.  Let  us  fatisfy  ourfelves,  however,  by  confidering, 
that  without  this  talent,  or  at  leaft  with  a  very  fmall  meafure 
of  it,  we  may  both  write  and  fpeak  to  advantage.  Good  fenfe, 
clear  ideas,  perfpicuity  of  language,  and  proper  arrangement  of 
words  and  thoughts,  will  always  command  attention.  Thefe 
are  indeed  the  foundations  of  all  folid  merit,  both  in  fpeaking 
and  writing.  Many  fubjeQs  require  nothing^more  ;  and  thofe 
which  admit  of  ornament,  admit  it  only  as  a  fecondary  requi- 
fite.  To  (ludy  and  to  know  our  own  genius  well ;  to  follow 
nature  ;  to  feek  to  improve,  but  not  to  force  it,  are  directions 
M'hich  cannot  be  too  often  given  to  thofe  who  defire  to  excel 
in  the  liberal  arts. 

When  I  entered  on  the  confideration  of  Style,  I  obferved  that 
words  being  the  copies  of  our  ideas,  there  muft  always  be  a  very 
intimate  connexion  between  the  manner  in  which  every  writer 
employs  words,  and  his  manner  of  thinking ;  and  that,  from 
the  peculiarity  of  thought  and  exprelFion  which  belongs  to  him, 
there  is  a  certain  charaifter  imprinted  on  his  Style,  which  may 
be  denominated  his  manner  •,  commonly  exprefled  by  fuch  gen- 
eral 

*  "  I  mud  add,  concerning  thofe  figures  which  are  v>rop€r  in  thcanfelves, 
"tint  as  tiiey  l)cautify  a  compofilion  when  they  arc  fcd'onably  introduced, fo 
"  they  deform  it  ;;reatly,  if  too  frequently  fought  after.  There  are  fonic,  who, 
"  negiecfVing  ftrength  of  fentinient  and  weight  of  matter,  if  they  can  only  force 
"  their  empty  words  into  a  figurative  flyle,  imagine  themfclves  great  writers; 
"and  therefore  continiiallv  (Iring  together  fuch  ornaments;  which  is  jufl  as 
"  ridiculous,  where  there  is  no  fciuimcnt  to  fupport  them,  as  to  contrive  gef- 
•'  tnres  and  drelfes  for  what  wants  a  liody.  Even  thofe  figures  which  a  fub- 
"  jei.n.  admits,  muft  not  come  too  thick.  We  muft  begin  with  confidering  wK.tt 
"  the  occafion,  the  time,  and  the  perfon  who  fptaks,  render  proper,  lor  the 
"  objiiH:  aimed  at  by  the  greater  part  of  tliefe  figures,  is  entertainment.  But 
"  when  the  fubjecl  becomes  deeply  ferious,  and  (Irong  palhoiis  are  to  be  mov. 
"  ed,  who  can  bear  the  orator,  who,  in  affecled  language  and  balanced  phrafcs, 
"endeavours  to  exprcfs  wrath,  commiferation,  or  earneft  entreaty  ?  On  all 
*'  fuch  oceafions,  a  folicitous  attenfipn  to  words  weakens  paifion;  and  wiicta. 
"  fa  much  art  i«  fliown,  there  is  fufpected  to  be  little  finccrity." 


256  GENERAL   CHARACTERS    LECT.X^mi. 

cral  terms,  as  flrong,  weak,  dry,  fimple,  affc£led,  or  the  like. 
Thefe  diflin(£lions  carry,  in  general,  fome  reference  to  an  au- 
thor's ir.anner  of  thinking,  but  refer  chiefly  to  his  node  of  ex- 
prcflion.  They  arife  from  the  whole  tenour  of  his  language  ; 
and  comprehend  the  efle(^  produced  by  all  thofe  parts  of  Style 
whicli  we  have  already  confidered  ;  the  choice  which  he  makes 
of  fingle  j\'ords  j  his  arrangement  of  thefe  in  fentenccs ;  the  de- 
gree of  h;s  preclfion  ;  and  his  embeljitlmient,  by  means  of  mu- 
fical  cadence,  figures,  or  other  arts  of  fpeech.  Of  fuch  general 
characters  of  Style,  therefore,  it  remains  now  to  fpeak,  as  the 
rcfult  of  thofe  undevparts  of  which  I  have  hitherto  treated. 

That  different  fubjeQs  require  to  be  treated  of  in  different 
forts  of  Style,  is  a  pofitipn  foobviousv  that  I  (hall  not  ftay  to  il- 
Juilrate  it.  Every  one  fees  that  treatifes  of  philofophy,  for 
jnftance,  ought  not  to  be  compofed  in  the  fame  Style  with 
orations.  *Every  one  fees  alfo,  that  different  parts  of  the 
fime  compofitioa  require  a  variation  in  the  Style  and  manner. 
In  a  fermon,  for  inflance,  or  any  harangue,  the  application  or 
peroration  admits  more  ornament,  and  requires  more  vi'armth, 
than  the  dida£tic  part.  But  what  I  mean  at  prefent  to  remark 
is,  that  amidfl  this  variety,  we  dill  expect  to  find,  in  the  com- 
pcfitions  of  any  one  man,  fome  degree  of  uraformity  or  confift- 
ency  with  himfelf  in  manner  ;  we  expe£t  to  find  feme  predomi- 
nant character  of  Style  imprcffed  on  all  his  writings,  which  fliall 
fee  fuited  to,  and  fliall  mark  his  particular  genius,  and  turn  of 
hiind.  The  orations  in  LIvy  differ  much  in  Style,  as  they  ought 
to  do,  from  the  reft  of  his  hiflory.  The  fame  is  the  cafe  with 
thofe  in  TacituS".  Yet  both  in  Livy's  orations,  and  in  thofe  of 
l^itus,  we  are  able  clearly  to  trace  the  dillinguifiiing  manner 
of  each  hiftorian  ;  the  magnificent  fulnefs  of  the  one,  and  the 
fententious  concifenefs  of  the  other.  The  "  Lettres  Perfanes,'* 
and  "  L'Efprit  des  Loix,"  are  the  works  of  the  fame  author. 
They  required  very  different  compofition  furcly,  and  according- 
ly they  differ  widely  ;  yet  flill  we  fee  the  fame  hand.  Wlicre- 
ever  there  is  real  and  native  genius,  it  gives  a  determination  to 
one  kind  of  Style  rather  than  another.  Where  nothing  of  this 
appears ;  where  there  is  no  marked  nor  peculiar  chara£ler  in 
the  compofitions  of  any  author,  we  are  apt  to  infer,  not  witliout 
reafouj  that  he  is  a  vulgar  and  trivial  autliov,  who  writes  from 
imitation,  and  not  from  the  impulfe  of  original  genius.     As 

the 


Lect.  XVIII.  OF      STYLE.  ii6t 

the  mofl  celebrated  painters  are  known  by  their  hand,  fo  the 
beft  and  moft  original  writers  arc  known  and  dillinguiflied, 
throughout  all  their  works,  by  their  Style  and  peculiar  manner^ 
This  will  be  found  to  hold  almofl  without  exception. 

The  ancient  critics  attended  to  thefe  general  charaOrers  of 
Style  which  we  dre  now  to  confider.  Dionyfias  of  Halicarnaf- 
fus  divides  them  into  three  kinds  ;  and  calls  them  the  Auftere, 
the  Florid,  and  the  Middle.  By  the  Auftere,  he  nicans  a  Style 
diftinguifhed  forllrength  and  firmnefs,  with  a  negledl  offmooth- 
nefs  and  ornament  J  for  examples  of  which,  he  gives  Pindar  and 
j^]fchylus  among  tlic  poets,  ivnd  Thucydides  among  the  profit 
writers.  By  the  Florid,  he  means,  as  the  name  indicates,  a 
Style  ornamented,  flowing,  and  fweet ;  refting  more  upon  num- 
bers and  grace,  than  lirength  ;  he  inftances  licfiod,  Sappho, 
Anacreon,  Euripides,  and  principally  Ifocrates.  The  IMiddlc 
kind  i3  the  juft  mean  between  thefe,  and  comprehends  the 
beauties  of  both  ;,  in  which  clafshe  places  Homer  and  Sophocles 
among  the  poets  ;  in  profe,  Herodotus,  Demofthenes,  Plato, 
and  (what  feerns  ftrange)  Ariftotle.  l^his  raufl  be  a  very  wide 
clafs  indeed,  which  comprehends  Plato  and  Ariftotle  under  one 
article  as  to  Style.*  Cicero  and  Chiintilian  make  alio  a  three- 
fold divilion  of  Style,  though  with  rcfpet^l  to  different  qualities 
of  it ;  in  which  they  are  followed  by  moil  of  the  modern  writers 
on  rhetoric  i  the  Swiplex,  Tenucy  or  Subtile  ;  the  Grave  or  Fr- 
benu'iis ;.  and  the  Mediwriy  or,  tirtiperattim  genus  dh'cndi.  But- 
thefe  divifions,  and  tlie  illuftrations  they  give  of  them,  are  fo 
loofe  and  general,  that  they  cannot  advance  us  much  in  our 
ideas  of  Style*  I  fliall  endeavour  to  be  a  little  more  particular 
in-  what  I  have  to  fay  on  this  fubje^l. 

One  of  the  firft  and  mofl  obvious  diflindlions  of  t\it  dlfTer- 
ent  kinds  of  Style,  is  what  arifes  from  an  author'j;  fpreading  out 
his  thoughts  more  or  lefs.  This  diftin£lion  forms,  what  are 
called  the  DiiFufe  and  the  Concife  Styles,  i  A  concife  writer 
comprefTes  his  thought  into  the  fewefl  poffible  words  ;  he  feeks 
to  employ  none  but  fuch  as  are  moil  exprelllve  ;  he  lops  off, 
as  redundant,  every  exprcfTlon  which  does  not  add  fomething 
material  to  the  fenfe.  l  Ornament  he  does  not  rcje<Sl ;  he  may- 
be lively  and  figured  •,  but  his  ornament  is  intended  for  the 
fake  of  force,  rather  than  grace.     He  never  gives  you  the  fame 

tliought 
*  De  Compolltione  Verboruni,  Cap.  25. 


262  CONCISE     AND  Lect.XVUI. 

thought  twice.  He  places  It  In  the  light  whicli  appears  to  him 
the  moll  ftrilcing  ;  but  If  you  do  not  apprehend  it  well  in  that 
light,  you  need  not  expecl  to  find  it  in  any  other.  His  fentences 
are  arranged  with  compaftnefs  and  ftrength,  rather  than  with 
cadence  and  harmony.  The  utmofl  precifion  is  lludied  in  them  ; 
and  they  are  commonly  dcfigned  to  fuggeft  more  to  the  reader's 
imagination  than  they  diredtly  exprefs. 

A  dlfTufe  writer  unfolds  his  thought  fully.  He  places  it  In 
a  variety  of  lights,  and  gives  the  reader  every  pofiible  aflillance 
for  underftanding  it  completely.  \He  is  not  very  careful  to  ex- 
prefs it  at  firll  In  its  full  llrength ;  becaufe  he  is  to  repeat  the 
impreflion  ;  and  what  he  wants  In  ftrength,  he  propofes  to 
fupply  by  copioufncfs.  Writers  of  this  chara£ler  generally 
love  magnificence  and  amplification.  Their  periods  naturally 
run  out  into  fome  length,  and  having  room  for  ornament  of 
every  kind,  they  admit  it  freely. 

Each  of  thefe  manners  has  Its  peculiar  advantages ;  and  each 
becomes  faulty  when  carried  to  the  extreme.  The  extreme  of 
Concifenefs  becomes  abrupt  and  obfcure  ;  it  is  apt  alfo  to  lead 
into  a  Styte  too  pointed,  and  bordering  on  the  epigrammatic. 
The  extrenxe  DilTufenefs  becomes  weak  and  languid,  and  tires 
the  rejider.  However,  to  one  or  other  of  thefe  two  manners, 
a  writer  may  lean  according  as  his  genius  prompts  him  :  and 
under  the  general  character  of  a  conclfe,  or  of  a  more  open 
and  diffufe  Style,  may  poflefs  mikch  beauty  in  hiscompofition. 

For  Illuflrations  of  thefe  general  charadlers,  I  can  only  re- 
fer to  the  writers  who  are  examples  of  them.  It  Is  not  fo  much 
from  detached  pafTages,  fuch  as  I  was  wont  formerly  to  quote 
for  inflances,  as  from  the  current  of  an  author's  Style,  that  we 
are'  to  colle6t  the  idea  of  a  formed  manner  of  writing.  The 
two  niofl  remarkable  examples  that  I  know,  of  Concifenefs  car- 
ried as  far  as  propriety  will  allow,  perhaps  in  fome  cafes  far- 
ther, are  Tacitus  the  hlftorian,  and  the  PreCdent  Montefquleu 
in  "L'Efprit  des  Loix."  Arillotle  too  holds  an  eminent  rank 
among  didactic  writers  for  his  brevity.  Perhaps  nc  writer  In 
the  world  was  ever  fo  frugal  of  his  words  as  Arlftotle  ;,  but 
this  frugality  of  exprelTion  frequently  darkens  his  meaning,. 
Of  a  beautiful  and  magnificent  DIfi'ufenefs,  Cicero  is,  beyond 
doubt,  the  moft  illuitrious  initance  that  can  be  given.     Addi- 

fon, 


Lect.  XVIII.       DIFFUSE      STYLE.  263 

fon,  alfo,  and  Sir  William  Temple,  come,  in  Tome  degree,  un- 
der this  clafs. 

In  judging  when  it  is  proper  to  lean  to  the  concife,  and  when 
to  the  diffufe  manner,  we  muft  be  directed  by  the  nature  of 
the  compofition.  Difcourfes  that  are  to  be  fpokcn,  require  a 
more  copious  Style,  than  books  that  arc  to  be  read.  J  When  the 
whole  meaning  mull  be  catched  from  the  mouth  of  the  fpeaker, 
without  the  advantage  which  books  afford  of  paufnig  at  pleafure, 
and  reviewing  what  appears  obfcure,  great  Concifenefs  is  always 
to  be  avoided.  We  (liould  never  prcfume  too  much  on  the 
quicknefs  of  our  hearers'  underftanding  ;  but  our  Style  ought 
to  be  fuch,  that  the  bulk  of  men  can  go  along  with  us  eafily,  and 
■without  effort.  Allowing  copious  Style,  therefore,  is  required  in 
all  public  fpeakers;  guarding,  at  the  fame  time,  againft  fuch  a  de- 
gree of  Diffufion,  as  renders  them  languid  and  tirefome  ;  which 
will  always  prove  the  cafe,  when  they  inculcate  too  much,  and 
prefent  the  fame  thought  under  too  many  difi'erent  views. 

In  written  compofitions,  a  certain  degree  of  Concifenefs  pof- 
feffes  great  advantages.  It  is  more  lively,  keeps  up  attention  j 
makes  a  brilker  and  ftronger  impreffion  ;  and  gratifies  the  mind 
by  fupplying  more  exercife  to  a  reader's  own  thought.  \  A  fen- 
timent,  which,  expreffed  diffufely,  will  barely  be  admitted  to 
be  juft,  expreffed  concifely,  will  be  admired  as  fpirited.  De- 
fcription,  when  we  want  to  have  it  vivid  and  animated,  fhould 
be  in  a  concife  drain.  This  is  different  from  tlie  common  opin- 
ion j  moll  perfons  being  ready  to  fuppofe,  that  upon  defcrip- 
tion  a  writer  may  dwell  more  fafely  than  upon  other  things, 
and  that  by  a  full  and  extended  Style,  it  is  rendered  more  rich 
and  expreffive.  I  apprehend,  on  the  contrary,  that  a  diffufe 
manner  generally  weakens  it.  Any  redundant  words  or  ehr- 
cumflances  encumber  the  fancy,  and  make  the  object  we  prefent 
to  it,  appear  confufed  and  indiftinil.  Accordingly,  the  moft 
mafterly  deferibers.  Homer,  Tacitus,  Milton,  are  almoft  always 
concife  in  their  defcriptions.  They  fhew  us  moa-e  of  an  object 
at  one  glance,  than  a  feeble  diffufe  writer  can  fhow,  by  turning 
it  round  and  round  in  a  variety  of  lights.  The  (Irength  and 
vivacity  of  defcription,  whetlicr  in  profe  or  poetry,  depend  much 
more  upon  the  happy  choice  of  one  or  two  llriking  circum- 
ftances,  than  upon  the  multiplication  of  them. 

Addreffe§ 


254  CONCISE,      &c.  Lect.XVIIL 

AddrefTes  to  the  paffions,  likewife,  ought  to  be  In  the  conciCt', 
rather  than  the  difFufe  manner.  In  thefe,  it  is  dangerous  to 
be  difFufe,  becaufe  it  is  very  difficult  to  fupport  proper  warmth 
for  any  length  of  time.  When  we  become  proHx,  we  ai^e  al- 
ways in  hazard  of  cooling  the  reader.  The  heart,  too,  and  the 
fancy  run  fafl ;  and  if  once  we  can  put  them  in  motion,  they 
fupply  many  pcirticulars  to  greater  advantage  than  an  author 
can  difplay  them.  The  cafe  is  diiFerent,  when  we  addrefs  our- 
felves  to  the  underftanding^  as  in  all  matters  of  reafoning,  ex- 
plication, and  iiiftrudlion.  There  I  would  prefer  a  more  fi-ee 
and  diiFufe  manner.  When  you  are  to  flrike  the  fancy,  or  to 
move  the  heart,  be  concife  ;  when  you  are  to  inform  the  un- 
deritanding,  which  moves  more  flowly,  and  requires  the  aluft- 
ance  of  a  guide,  it  is  better  to  be  full.  Hiflorical  nan^ation 
maybe  beautiful,  cither  in  a  concife  or  difFufe  manner,  accord- 
ing to  the  writer's  genius.  Livy  and  Herodotus  are  difFufe  ; 
Thucydides  and  Salluft  are  fuccindl  ;  yet  all  of  them  agree- 
able. 

I  obferved  that  a  diftufe  Style  inclines  moil  to  long  periods  ; 
ond  a  concife  writer,  it  is  certain,  will  often  employ  fhort  fen- 
tences.  It  is  not,  however,  to  be  inferred  from  tliis,  that  long 
or  flnort  fentences  are  fully  chara(2.eriltical  of  the  one  or  the 
other  manner.  It  is  very  pofTible  for  one  to  compofe  always  in 
fliort  fentences,  and  to  be  withal  extremely  diJlufe,  if  a  fmali 
jneafure  of  fentiment  be  fpread  through  many  of  thefe  fen- 
tences. Seneca  is  a  remarkable  example.  By  the  fliortnefs  and 
quaintnefs  of  his  fentences,  he  may  appear  at  firfl  view  very 
concife  ;  yet  he  is  far  from  being  fo.  He  transfigures  the  fame 
thought  into  many  different  forms.  He  makes  it  pafs  for  a 
new  one,  only  by  giving  it  a  new  turn.  So  alfo,  mo;l  of  the 
French  writers  compofe  in  fliort  fentences;  though  their  Style, 
In  general,  is  not  concife  ;  commonly  lefs  fo  than  the  bulk  of 
Englifh  writers,  whofe  fentences  are  much  longer.  A  French 
author  breaks  down  into  two  or  three  fentences,  that  portion 
of  thought  which  an  Englifh  author  crowds  »into  one.  The 
,  direQ  efteft  of  fhort  fentences,  is  to  render  the  Style  briflc  and 
lively,  but  not  always  concife.  By  the  quick  fucceflive  im- 
pulfes  which  they  make  on  the  mind,  they  keep  it  awake  ;  and 
give  to  compofition  more  of  a  fpirited  chara<^er.     Long  periods, 

like 


Lect.  XVIir.      NERVOUS  AND  FEEBLE.  265 

f'.ke  Lord  Clarendon's,  are  grave  and  (lately  ;  but,  like  all  grave 
things,  they  are  in  hazard  of  l?ecoming  dull.  An  intermixture 
of  both  long  and  fl^ort  ones  is  requifite,  when  we  would  fupport 
folemnity,  together  with  vivacity ;  leaning  more  to  the  one  or 
the  ether,  according  as  propriety  requires  that  the  folcmn  or 
the  fprightly  ihould  be  prccfominant  in  our  compofuion.  But! 
of  long  and  fliort  fentcnces,  I  had  occafion,  formerly,  to  treat, 
under  the  head  of  the  conftruiStion  of  periods. 

The  Nervous  and  the  Feeble,  are  generally  held  to  be  charac- 
ters of  Style,  of  the  fame  import  with  the  Concife  and  the 
Diffufe.  They  do  indeed  very  often  coincide.  '  Ditfufe  writers 
have  for  the  moft  part  fome  degree  of  feeblencfs  ;  and  nervous 
writers  will  generally  be  inclined  to  a  concife  exprelFion.  This, 
however,  does  not  always  hold  ;  and  there  are  inflances  of  writ- 
ers, who,  in  the  midll  of  a  full  and  ample  flylc,  have  maintain- 
ed a  great  degree  of  (Irength.  Livy  is  an  example  ;  and  in  the 
Englifli  Language,  Dr.  Barrow.  Barrow's  Style  has  many 
faults.  It  is  unequal,  incorrecl  and  redundant ;  but  withal, 
for  force  and  exprefhvenefs,  uncommonly  dillinguiflicd.  On 
every  iubjecl,  he  multiplies  words  with  an  overflowing  co- 
pioufnefs  ;  but  it  is  always  a  torrent  of  llrong  ideas  and  fignifi- 
cant  expreflions  which  he  pours  forth.  Indeed,  the  founda- 
tions of  a  nervous  or  a  weak  ftyle  are  laid  in  an  author's  man- 
ner of  thinking.  If  he  conceives  an  objecl  llrongly,  he  will 
exprefs  it  with  energy  :  but,  if  he  has  only  an  indiilindl  view 
of  his  fubjeol ;  if  his  ideas  be  loofe  and  wavering  ;  if  his  genius 
be  fuch,  or,  at  the  time  of  his  writing,  fo  carelef^ly  exerted, 
that  he  has  no  firm  hold  of  the  conception  which  he  would  com- 
municate to  us  ;  the  marks  of  all  this  will  clearly  appear  in  his 
Style.  Several  unmeaning  words  and  loofe  epithets  will  be 
found  ;  his  exprelFions  will  be  vague  and  general ;  his  arrange- 
ment indiil:in£l  and  feeble  ;  we  (hall  conceive  fomcv/hat  of  his 
meaning,  but  our  conception  will  be  faint.  Whereas  a  ner- 
vous writer,  whether  he  employs  an  extended  or  a  concife  Style, 
gives  us  always  a  ftrong  impreirion  of  his  meaning  •,  his  mind 
is  full  of  his  fubjcifl,  and  his  words  are  all  expreffive ;  every 
phrafe  and  every  figure  which  he  ufes,  tends  to  render  the  pic- 
ture, which  he  would  fet  before  us,  more  lively  and  com- 
plete. 

hi,  I  obfcrved 


^66  NERVOUS     AND  Lect.  XVIIL 

I  obferved  under  the  head  of  DifFufe  and  Concife  Style,  tha? 
an  author  might  lean  either  to  the  one  or  to  the  other,  and  yet 
be  beautiful.  This  is  not  the  cafe  with  refpe£t  to  the  Nervous 
'and  the  feeble.  Every  author,  in  every  compofition,  ought  to 
ftudy  to  exprefs  himfelf  with  fome  ftrength,  and,  in  propor- 
tion, as  he  approaches  to  the  Feeble,  lie  becomes  a  bad  writer. 
In  all  kinds  of  writing,  however,  the  fame  degree  of  ftrength 
is  not  demanded.  But  the  more  grave  and  weighty  any  com- 
pofition is,  the  more  fliould  a  character  of  ftrength  predominate 
in  the  Style.  Hence  in  hiftory,  philofophy,  and  folemn  dif- 
courfes,  it  is  expected  moft.  One  of  the  moft  complete  models 
of  a  Nervous  Style,  is  Demofthenes  in  his  orations. 

As  every  good  quality  in  Style  has  an  extreme,  when  purfued 
to  which  it  becomes  faulty,  this  holds  of  the  Nervous  Style  as 
well  as  others.  Too  great  a  ftudy  of  ftrength,  to  the  ncgle£t 
of  the  other  qualities  of  Style,  is  found  to  betray  writers  into 
a  harfh  manner.  Harflinefs  arifes  from  unufual  words,  from 
forced  inverfions  in  the  conftruclion  of  a  fentence,  and  too 
much  negleiSl  of  fmoothnefs  and  eafe.  This  is  reckoned  the 
fault  of  fome  of  our  earllcft  claiTics  in  the  Englifh  Language  ; 
fuch  as  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  Hooker,  Chill- 
ingvvorth,  Milton  in  his  profe  works,  Harrington,  Cudworth, 
and  other  writers  of  confiderable  note  in  the  days  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  James  I.  and  Charles  I.  Thefe  writers  had  nerves 
and  ftrength  in  a  high  degree,  and  are  to  this  day  e^nment  for 
that  quality  in  Style.  But  the  language  in  their  hands  was  ex- 
ceedingly different  from  what  it  is  now,  and  was  indeed  entire- 
ly formed  upon  the  idiom  and  conftru£lion  of  the  Latin  in  the 
arrangement  of  fentences.  Hooker,  for  iryftance,  begins  the 
preface  to  his  celebrated  work  of  Ecclefiaftical  Polity,  M'ith  the 
following  fentence  :  "  Though  for  no  other  caufe,  yet  for  this, 
•'  that  pofterity  may  know  we  have  not  loofely,  through  filence, 
?*  permitted  things  to  pafs  away  as  in  a  dream,  there  Ihall  be,  for 
*'  men's  information,  extant  this  much,  concerning  the  prefent 
5^flate  of  the  church  of  God  eftablilhed  amongft  us,  and  their 
*'  careful  endeavours  which  would  have  upheld  the  fame." 
Such  a  fentence  now  founds  harfti  in  our  ears.  Yet  fome  ad- 
vantages certainly  attended  this  fort  of  Style  ;  and  whether  we 
have  gained,  or  loft,  upon  the  whole,  by  departing  from  it,  • 
miy  bear  a  queftion.     By  the  freedom  .of  arrangement,  which 

it 


Lect.  XVIII:      feeble     style.  267 

it  permitted,  it  rendered  the  Language  fufceptible  of  more 
ftrength,  of  more  variety  of  collocation,  and  more  harmony  of 
period.  But  however  this  be,  fuch  a  ftyle  is  now  obfolete  ; 
and  no  modem  writer  could  adopt  it  without  the  cenfure  of 
harflinefs  and  affe6i:ation.  The  prefent  form  which  the  Lan- 
guage has  affumed,  has,  in  fome  meafure,  facrificed  the  ftudy 
of  flrength  to  that  of  perfpicuity  and  cafe.  Our  arrangement 
of  words  has  become  lefs  forcible,  perhaps,  but  more  plain  and 
natural :  and  this  is  now  underflood  to  be  the  genius  of  our 
Language. 

The  reftoration  of  king  Charles  II.  feems  to  be  the  sera  of 
the  formation  of  our  prefent  Style.  Lord  Clarendon  was  one 
cf  the  firfl:  who  laid  afide  thofe  frequent  inverfions  which  pre- 
vailed among  writers  of  the  former  age.  After  him.  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple  poliflied  the  Language  ftill  more.  But  the  author, 
who,  by  the  number  and  reputation  of  his  works,  formed  it 
more  than  any  one,  into  its  prefent  ftate,  is  Dryden.  Dryden 
began  to  write  at  the  Refloration,  and  continued  long  an  au- 
thor both  in  poetry  and  profe.  He  had  made  the  Language  his 
ftudy  ;  and  though  he  wrote  haftily,  and  often  incorrectly,  and 
his  Style  is  not  free  from  faults,  yet  there  is  a  richnefs  in  his 
dijStion,  a  copioufnefs,  eafe,  and  variety  in  his  expreflion,  which 
has  not  been  fuvpafTed  by  any  who  have  come  after  him.*  Since 
his  time,  confiderable  attention  has  been  paid  to  Purity  and 
Elegance  of  Style  :  but  it  is  Elegance,  rather  than  Strength^ 
that  forms  the  diftinguiftiing  quality  of  moft  of  the  good  Eng- 
liflr  writers.  Some  of  them  compofe  in  a  more  manly  and 
nervous  manner  than  others  ;  but,  whether  it  be  from  the  ge- 
nius of  our  Language,  or  from  whatever  other  caufe,  it  appears 
to  me,  that  we  are  far  from  the  ilrengthof  feveralof  the  Greek 
and  Roman  authors. 

Hitherto   we  have  confidered  Style  under  thofe  charaClers 

that  refpedl  its  expreffivenefs  of  an   author's  meaning.      Let 

us 

*  Dr.  Johnfon,  in  his  life  of  Drytkn,  gives  the  following  charadler  of  his 
profe  Style  :  "  His  prefaces  have  not  the  formality  of  a  fettled  Style,  in  which 
♦'  the  lirft  lialf  of  the  fentcncc  betrays  the  other.  The  claufes  are  never  baU 
"  anced,  nor  the  periods  modelled;  every  word  feems  to  drop  by  chance, 
"  though  it  falls  into  its  proper  place.  Nothing  is  cold  or  languid  ;  the  whole 
"  is  airy,  animated  and  vigorous  ;  what  is  little,  is  gay  ;  what  is  great,  is  fplen- 
*'  did.  Though  all  is  eafy,  nothing;  is  feeble  ;  though  all  feems  careltfs,  there 
"  is  nothing  harfli  ;  and  though,  lince  his  earlier  works,  more  than  a  ceiituiy 
*  has  paflcd,  tliey  have  nothins  yet  uncouth  or  cbfokte." 


26»  DRY,      PLAIN,         Lect.  XVIII. 

us  now  proceed  to  confider  it  in  another  view,  with  refpcft  to 
the  clcirree  of  ornament  employed  to  beautify  it.  Here,  the 
Style  of  different  authors  feems  to  rife,  in  the  following  grada- 
tion :  a  Dry,  a  Plain,  a  Neat,  an  Elegant,  a  Flowery  manner. 
Of  each  of  thefe  in  their  order  : 

Firft,  a  Dry  manner.  This  excludes  all  ornament  of  every 
kind.  Content  with  being  underftood,  it  has  not  the  leaft  z'nn 
to  pleafe,  either  the  fancy  or  the  ear.  •.  This  is  tolerable  only 
in  pure  didaclic  writing  ;  and  even  there,  to  make  us  bear  it, 
great  weight  and  folidity  of  matter  is  rcquifitc  ;  and  entire 
perfpieuity  of  Language.  Ariflotle  is  the  thorough  example 
of  a  Dry  Style.  Never,  perhaps,  was  there  any  author  wha 
adhered  fo  rigidly  to  the  ftridlnefs  of  a  didacflic  manner,, 
tliroughout  all  his  writings,  and  conveyed  fo  much  in{lru£lion 
without  the  leaft  approach  to  ornament.  'Vv'^ith  the  moft  pro- 
found genius,  and  extenfive  views,  lie  writes  like  a  pure  intel- 
ligence, who  addreffes  himfelf  folely  to  the  underftanding,  with- 
out making  any  ufc  of  the  channel  of  tlie  iaiagination.  But 
this  is  a  manner  which  deferves  not  to  be  imitated.  For,  al- 
though the  goodnefs  of  the  matter  may  compenfite  the  clrynef* 
or  harflmefs  of  the  Style,  yet  is  that  drynefe  a  confiderable  de- 
feat ;  as  it  fatigues  attention,  and  conveys  our  fentiments  with, 
difadvantage  to  the  reader  or  hearer. 

A  Plain  Style  rifes  one  degree  above  a  Dry  one.  A  writer  of 
this  character,  employs  very  little  ornament  of  any  kind,  and 
reds,  almoft,  entirely  upon  his  fenfe.  i  But,  if  he  is  ar  no  pains 
to  engage  us  by  the  employment  of  fi;::^ures,  mufical  arrange- 
ment, or  any  other  art  of  vi'iiting,  he  ftudiesj  however,  to  a- 
void  difgufting  us  like  a  dry  and  a  harHi  writer.  Befides  Per- 
fpieuity, he  purfues  Propriety,  purity,  and  Preciaon,  in  his 
Language  ;  which  form  one  degree,  and  no  inconfiderableone* 
of  beauty.  Livelinefs,  too,  and  force,  may  be.  connftent  v.-uh 
a  very  ITain  Style  :  and,  therefore,  fuch  an  autlior,  if  his  fen- 
timents  be  good,  may  be  abundantly  agreeable.  The  difference 
between  a  Dry  and  a  Plain  writer,  is,  that  the  former  is  inca- 
pable of  crnamenr,  and  feems  not  to  know  what  it  is;  the  lat- 
ter feeks  not  after  it.  He  gives  us  his  meaning,  in  good  Lan- 
«;uage,  diftincl  and  pure ;  any  further  ornam.ent  he  gives  him- 
felf no  trouble  about ;  either,  becaufe  he  thinks  it  unneceflary 

t© 


Lect.  XVni.        NEAT      STYLE.  a6> 

to  his  fubje£t ;  or,  becaufe  his  genius  decs  not  lead  him  to  de- 
light in  it  •>  or,  becaufe  it  leads  him  to  defpife  it.* 

This  lad  was  the  cafe  with  Dean  Swift,  who  may  be  placed 
at  the  head  of  thofe  that  have  employed  the  Plain  Style.  Few 
writers  have  difcovered  more  capacity.  Pie  treats  every  fub- 
jftcl  which  h&  handles,  whether  ferious  or  ludicrous,  in  a  maf- 
terly  manner.  He  knew,  ahnoll,  beyond  any  man,  the  PuritVj 
the  Extent,  the  Precifion  of  the  Englilli  Language  ;  and,  there- 
fore, to  fucli  as  wifh  to  attain  a  pure  and  corredt  Style,  he  is 
one  of  the  moil  ufeful  models.  But  we  mufl  not  look  for  much 
ornament  and  grace  in  his  Language.  His  haughty  and  mo- 
rofe  genius,  made  him  defpife  any  embellifliment  of  this  kind 
as  beneath  his  dignity.  He  delivers  his  fejitin'icnts  in  a  plain, 
downright,  pofitive  manner,  like  one  who  is  fure  he  is  in  the 
right  j  and  is  very  indifferent  whether  you  be  pleafed  or  not. 
His  fentences  are  commonly  negligently  arranged  ;  diftin£lly 
enough  as  to  the  fcnfe  ;  but,  without  any  regard  to  fmoothnefs 
of  found  ;  often  without  much  regard  to  compa£lnefs,  or  ele- 
gance. If  a  metaphor,  or  any  other  figure,  chanced  to  render 
his  fatire  more  poignant,  he  would,  perhaps,  vouchfafe  to  adopt 
it,  when  it  came  in  his  way  ;  but  if  it  tended  only  to  embellifh 
and  illuftrate,  he  would  rather  throw  it  afidc.  Hence,  in  his 
ferious  pieces,  his  ftyle  often  borders  upon  the  dry  and  unpleaf- 
ing  ;  in  his  humorous  ones,  the  plainnefs  of  his  manner  gives 
his  wlc  a  fingular  edge,  and  fets  it  off  to  tlie  highefl  advantage. 
There  is  no  froth,  nor  affcflation  in  it  ;  it  flows  without  any 
fludied  preparation  ;  and  while  he  hardly  appears  to  fmile  him- 
felf,  he  makes  his  reader  laugh  heartily.  To  a  M'ritcr  of  fuch 
a  genius  as  Dean  Swift,  the  Plain  Style  was  molt  admirably 
fitted.  Among  our  philofophical  writers,  Mr.  Locke  comes  , 
under  this  clafs  j  perfpicuous  and  pure,  but  almoft  v/ithout 
any  ornament  whatever.  In  works  v/hich  admit,  or  require, 
ever  fo  much  ornament,  there  are  parts  where  the  plaia-  manner 
ought  to  prcdouiiiKite.  But  we  mufl  remember,  that  when 
this  is  the  chara(Ller  which  a  writer  affeds  throughout  iiis 

whole 

•  On  this  head,  of  the  General  CharK(5tcrs  of  Style,  particularly  the  Plain 
and  tlip  Simple,  and  tlic  clK'.raacrs  of  tliofe  Englilli  authors  who  are  ckfTed 
under  them,  in  tliis,  .•'.nd  the  following  l.t<1iirr,  I'tvtral  ideas  Imw  been  taken 
from  a  m<nui(ciipt  trcatife  (in  rlittoric,  part  of  which  was  lliewn  to  mc,  many 
vcars  ago,  by  the  learned  and  ingcn.ious  author.  Dr.  Ad«ui  Smi'li  -.  aod  wjiiclxj 
It  it  hoped,  will  be  given  by  him  to  the  public. 


2f(x  ELEGANT     STYLE.      Lect.XVIIL 

whole  compofition,  great  weight  of  matter,  and  great  force  of 
fentiment,  are  require.!,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  reader's  at- 
tention, and  prevent  him  from  tiring  of  the  author. 

What  is  called  a  Neat  Style  comes  next  in  order  j  and  here 
we  are  got  into  the  region  of  ornament ;  but  that  ornament 
not  of  the  higheft  or  mod  fparkling  kind.  '  A  writer  of  this 
chara£lcr  fhows,  that  he  does  not  defpife  the  beauty  of  Lan- 
guage. It  is  an  object  of  his  attention.  But  his  attention  is 
fliown  in  the  choice  of  his  words,  and  in  a  graceful  collocation 
of  them  •,  rather  than  in  any  high  efforts  of  imagination,  or 
eloquence.  His  fentences  are  always  clean,  and  free  from  the 
incumbrance  of  fuperfluous  words  ;.  of  a  moderate  length  j  ra- 
ther inclining  to  brevity,  than  a  fwelling  flrudlure  ;  clofing 
with  propriety  ;  without  any  tails,  or  adjcQions  dragging  after 
the  proper  clofe.  His  cadence  is  varied  j  but  not  of  the  ftudi- 
ed  mufical  kind.  His  figures,  if  he  ufes  any,  are  fhort  and 
corre6l,  rather  than  bold  and  glowing.  Such  a  Styls  as  this 
may  be  attained  by  a  writer  who  has  no  great  powers  of  fancy 
or  genius  ;  by  induftry  merely,  and  careful  attention  to  the 
Tules  of  writing  ;  and  it  is  a  Style  always  agreeable.  It  im* 
prints  a  character  of  moderate  elevation  on  our  compofition>. 
and  carries  a  decent  degree  of  ornament,  which  is  not  unfuita- 
ble  to  any  fubje6l  whatever.  A  familiar  letter,  or  a  law  paper, 
on  the  dried  fubjedt,  may  be  written  with  neatnefs  ;  and  a  fer- 
jnon,  or  a  philofophical  treatife,  in  a  Neat  Style,  will  be  read 
with  plcafure. 

An  Elegant  Style  is  a  character,  exprefling  a  higher  degree- 
cf  ornament  than  a  Neat  one  ;  and,  indeed,  is  the  term  ufually 
applied  to  Style,  when  pofieffnig  all  the  virtues  of  ornament, 
without  any  of  its  exceffes  or  defedls.  '  From  what  has  been. 
formerly  delivered,  it  will  eafily  be  underftood,  that  complete 
Elegance  implies  great  perfpicuity  and  propriety  ;  purity  in  the 
clioice  of  words,  and  care  and  dexterity  in  their  harmonious 
and  happy  arrangement.  It  implies,  farther,  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  imagination  fpread  over  Style,  as  far  as  the  fubjcti: 
admits  it ;  and  all  the  illuftration  which  Figurative  Language 
adds,  when  properly  employed.  In  a  word,  an  Elegant  writer 
is  one  who  pleafes  the  fancy  and  the  ear,  while  he  informs  the 
wnderftanding  ;  and  who  gives  us  his  ideas  clothed  with  all  the 
beaufy  of  expreffion,  but  not  overcharged  with  any  of  its  mif- 

placed 


Lect.  XVIII.       FLORID      STYLE.  t-jt 

placed  finery.  In  this  clafs,  therefore,  we  place  only  the  firft 
rate  writers  in  the  Language  ;  fuch  as,  Addifon,  Drydcn,  Pope, 
Temple,  Bolingbroke,  Atterbury,  and  a  few  raorei  writers 
who  differ  widely  from  one  another  in  many  of  the  attributes 
of  Style,  but  whom  we  now  clafs  together,  under  the  denomi- 
nation of  Elegant,  as,  in  the  fcale  of  Ornament,  pofTcfling  near- 
ly the  fame  place. 

When  the  ornametits  applied  to  Style,  are  too  rich  and  gau- 
dy in  proportion  to  the  fubjedl ;  when  they  return  upon  us  too 
fail,  and  ftrilce  us  either  with  a  dazzling  ludre,  or  a  falfe  bril- 
liancy, this  forms  what  is  called  a  Florid  Style  ;  a  term  com- 
monly ufed  to  fignify  the  excefs  of  ornament.  In  a  young 
compofer  this  is  very  pardonable.  Perhaps,  it  is  even  a  prom- 
iiing  fymptom  in  young  people,  that  their  Style  fliould  incline 
to  the  Florid  and  Luxuriant ;  "  Volo  fe  efTcrat  in  adolefcentc 
*'  fecunditas,"  fays  Quintilian,  "  multum  inde  decoquent  anni, 
"  multum  ratio  limabit,  aliquid  velut  ufu  ipfo  deterctur ;  fit 
**  modo  unde  excidi  poflit  quid  et  cxculpi.  Audeat-hsec  aetas 
*'  plura,  et  inveniat  et  inventis  gaudeat  ^  fint  licet  ilia  non  fatis 
**  interim  ficca  et  fevera.  Facile  remedium  efl  ubertatis :  fter- 
**  ilia  nullo  labore  vincuntur."*  But,  although  the  Florid  Style 
may  be  allowed  to  youth,  in  their  firfl  efTays,  it  muft  not  receive 
the  fame  indulgence  from  writers  of  maturer  years.  It  is  to  be 
expelled,  that  judgment,  as  it  ripens,  fliould  chaften  imagination, 
and  reje6l,  as  juvenile,  all  fuch  ornaments  as  are  redundant,  un- 
fuitable  to  the  fubje£t,  or  not  conducive  to  illuftrate  it.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  contemptible  than  that  tinfel  fplendor  of  Lan- 
guage, which  fome  writers  perpetually  affetft.  It  were  well,  i£ 
this  could  be  afcribed  to  the  real  overflowing  of  a  rich  imagin- 
ation. We  fliould  then  have  fomething  to  amufe  us,  at  leaft, 
if  wc  found  little  to  inflrucft  us.  But  the  worfl:  is,  that  with 
thofe  frothy  writers,  it  is  a  luxuriancy  of  words,  not  of  fancy. 
We  fee  a  laboured  attempt  to  rife  to  a  fplendour  of  compofi- 
tion,  of  which  they  have  formed  to  themfelvcs  fome  loofe  idea  ; 

but 

•  "  In  youth,  I  widi  to  feelutiin'ancy  of  fancy  appear,  Much  of  It  will  be 
*  diminiflitd  hy  ycirs  ;  much  will  be  corrc<5ttd  bv  ripening  judgment ;  fome  of 
«'  it,  by  the  mere  practice  of  compofition,  will  be  worn  away.  Let  tiiere  be  only 
"  fufficicnt  matter,  at  iirft,  th^t  can  bear  fome  pruning  and  loppino;  ofF.  At 
"  this  time  of  life,  let  genius  be  bold  and  inventive,  and  pridt  itfelf  in  its  cf- 
•'  ftirts,  though  th<fe  fliould  not,  as  yet,  be  correifl.  Luxuriancy  cau  cafily  be 
«  cured;  but  for  barrcmicfs  there  i»no  remedy." 


272  TLORID     STYLE.       LECT.X\^Iir 

but  having  no  fhrcngth  of  genius  for  attaining  it,  they  endeavour 
to  fupply  the  defecl:  by  poetical  words,  by  cold  exclamations, 
by  common-place  figures,  and  every  thing  that  has  the  appear- 
ance of  pomp  and  magnificence.  It  has  efcapcd  thcfe  writers, 
that  fobriety  in  ornament,  is  one  great  fecret  for  rendering  it 
pleafing-,  and  tJivit,  without  a  foundation  of  good  fenfe  and 
folld  thought,  the  moft  Florid  Style  is  but  a  childith  impofition 
on  the  public.  The  pubhc,  however,  are  but  too  apt  to  be  fo 
impofed  on ;  at  lead,  the  mob  of  readers,  who  are  very  ready 
to  be  caught,  at  firil,  with  whatever  is  dazzling  and  gaudy. 

I  cannot  help  thinking,  that  it  reflecls  more  honour  on  the 
religious  turn,  and  good  difpofitions  of  the  prefent  age,  than 
on  the  public  taile,  that  Mr.  Hcrvey's  Meditations  have  had  fo 
great  a  currency.  The  pious  and  benevolent  heart,  wliich  is 
always  difplayed  in  them,  and  the  lively  fancy  which,  on  fome 
occafions,  appears,  juftly  merits  applaufe  :  but  the  perpetual 
glitter  of  expreuionj  the  fwoln  imagery,  and  ftralned  defcriptioii 
which  abound  in  them,  are  ornaments  of  a  falfe  kind.  I  would, 
therefore,  advife  ftudents  of  oratory  to  imitate  Mr.  Hervey's 
piety,  rather  than  his  Style-,  and,  in  all  compolitions  of  a  fe- 
rlous  kind,  to  turn  their  attention,  as  Mr.  Pope  fays,  "  from 
*'  founds  to  tilings,  fronr  fancy  to  the  heart."  Admonitions 
of  this  kind,  I  have  already  had  occaiion  to  give,  and  may  here- 
after repeat  them  ;  as  I  conceive  nothing  more  incumbent  on 
me  in  this  courfe  of  Lectures,  than  to  take  every  opportu- 
nity of  cautioning  my  readers  againfl  the  affedlied  and  friv- 
olous ufe  of  ornament  9  and,  infliead  of  that  flight  and  fuper- 
facial  tafte  in  writing,  which  I  appi'ehend  to  be  at  prefent  too 
fafhlonable,  to  introduce,  as  far  as  my  endeavours  can  avail,  a 
tafte  for  more  folid  thought,  and  more  manly  fimplicity  in 
Style. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE         XIX. 


GENERAL  CHARACTERS  OF  STYLE—SIMPLE,  AF- 
FECTED, VEHEMENT.  DIRECTIONS  FOR  FORM- 
ING A  PROPER  STYLE. 


H 


AVING  entered  in  the  lafl:  Le£lure  on  tlie  confid- 
eratlon  of  the  General  Chara£lers  of  Style,  I  treated  of  tlic  con- 
cife  and  dilFufc,  the  nervous  and  feeble  manner.  I  confidered 
Style  alfo,  with  relation  to  the  different  degrees  of  ornament 
employed  to  beautify  it,  in  which  view,  the  manner  of  differ- 
ent authors  rifes  according  to  the  following  gradation :  Dry, 
Plain,  Neat,  Elegant,  Flowery. 

1  am  next  to  treat  of  Style  under  another  character,  one  of 
great  importance  in  writing,  and  which  requires  to  be  accurate- 
ly examined,  that  of  Simplicity,  or  a  Natural  Style,  as  diflin- 
gulfficd  from  Afic^lation.  I  Simplicity,  applied  to  writing,  is  a 
term  very  frequently  ufed  ;  but,  like  many  other  critical  terms, 
often  ufcd  loofcly,  and  without  precifion.  This  has  been  owing 
chiefly  to  the  different  meanings  given  to  the  word  Simplicity, 
which,  therefore,  it  will  be  neceflary  here  to  dillinguifli ;  and 
to  ihew  in  what  fenfe  it  is  a  proper  attribute  of  Style.  We 
may  remark  four  diff'erent  acceptations  in  which  it  is  taken. 

The  firft  is,  Simplicity  of  Corapofitlon,  as  oppofej  to  too 
great  a  variety  of  parts.     Horace's  precept  refers  to  this  : 

Dcnique  fit  quod  vis  fimplex  duntaxat  et  unum.* 

This  is  the  Simplicity  of  plan  in  a  tragedy,  as  diffingulfhed 
fr(Mn  double  plots,  and  crowded  incidents  ;  the  Simplicity  of 
the  Iliad,  or  wffineid,  in  oppoQtion  to  the  digreffions  of  Lucan, 
M  M  and 

•  "Then  learn  the  wand'ring  humour  to  control, 
"  And  keep  oue  e^ual  teuour  through  the  wlitdc,"        Francis. 


274  SIMPLICITY    AND         Lect.XIX. 

and  the  fcattered  tales  of  Ariofto  ;  the  Simplicity  of  Grecian 
architecture,  in  oppofition  to  the  irregular  variety  of  the  Go- 
thic.    In  this  fenfc,  Simplicity  is  the  lame  with  Unity. 

The  fecoud  fenfc  is  Simplicity  of  Thought,  as  oppofed  to 
Refinement.  Simple  thoughts  are  what  arife  naturally  ;  what 
the  occafion,  or  the  fubjedl  fuggeft  unfought ;  and  what,  when 
once  fuggefted,  are  eafily  apprehended  by  all.  Refinement  ni 
writing,  exprefTes  a  lefs  natural  and  obvious  train  of  thought, 
and  which  it  required  a  peculiar  turn  of  genius  to  purfue  ; 
within  certain  bounds  very  beautiful  j  but  when  carried  too 
far,  approaching  to  intricacy,  and  hurting  us  by  the  appearance 
of  being  recherche,  or  far  fought.  Thus,  wc  would  naturally  fay, 
that  Mr.  Parnell  is  a  poet  of  f<ir  greater  Simplicity,  in  his  tuni 
of  thought,  than  IMr.  Cowley  ;  Cicero's  thoughts  on  moral 
fubjetfts  are  natural  j  Seneca's  too  refined  and  laboured.  In 
thefe  two  fenfes  of  Simplicity,  when  it  is  oppofed,  either  to 
variety  of  parts,  or  to  reiinement  of  thought,  it  has  no  proper 
relation  to  Style. 

There  is  a  third  fenfc  of  Simplicity,  in  which  it  has  refpecSl 
to  Style  ;  and  flands  oppofed  to  too  hiuch  ornament,  or  pomp 
of  Language  •,  as  when  we  f^iy,  Mr.  Locke  is  a  fimple,  Mr  Her- 
vey  a  Horld,  writer  ;  and  it  is  in  this  i^wit.,  that  the  ^^fuiiplex" 
the  *'  tcnue"  or  ^^  fuhtile  genus  diccndi,"  is  underflood  by  Cicero 
and  Quintilian.  The  Simple  Style,  in  this  fenfe,  coincides 
with  ti)e  Plain  or  the  Neat  Style,  which  I  before  mentioned  j 
and,  therefore,  requires  no  farther  illuftration. 

But  there  is  a  fourth  fenfe  of  Simplicity,  alfo,  refpe£ling 
Style;  but  not  refpecting  the  degree  of  ornament  employed, 
i,  fo  much  as  the  eafy  and  natural  manner  in  which  our  Lan- 
guage exprelles  our  thoughts.  This  is  quite  different  from  the 
former  fenfe  of  the  word  juft  now  mentioned,  in  which  Sim- 
plicity was  equivalent  to  plainnefs  :  whereas,  in  this  fenfe,  it 
is  comp  itiblc  with  the  highcll  ornament.  Homer,  for  inflance, 
poflelTes  thi^  Simplicity  in  the  greatcfl  perfection  ;  and  yet  no 
writer  has  more  Ornament  and  Beauty.  This  Simplicity, 
w.i.di  is  what  we  are  now  to  confider,  ftands  oppofed,  not  to 
(Ornament,  but  to  Affectation  of  Ornament,  or  appearance  of 
lai^our  about  our  Style  ;  and  it  is  a  diftinguifliing  excellency  in 
writing. 

A  writer 


Lect.XIX.       affectation  in  style.  275 

A  writer  of  Simplicity  exprelTes  himfelf  in  fuch  a  manner, 
that  every  one  thitiks  he  could  have  written  in  the  fame  way  j 
Horace  defcribes  it, 


-ut  fibl  quivis 


Sperct  idem,  fudet  niultum,  fruilraquc  laboret 
Aulus  idem.* 

There  arc  no  marks  of  art  in  his  exprefhon  ;  it  fcems  the  very 
language  of  nature  ;  you  fee  in  the  Style,  not  the  writer  and  his 
labour,  but  the  man  in  his  own  natural  chara6ler.  He  maybe 
rich  in  his  expreilion  ;  he  may  be  full  of  figures,  and  of  fancy  ; 
but  thefe  flow  from  him  without  effort ;  and  he  appears  to 
write  in  this  manner,  not  bccaufe  he  has  ftudied  it,  but  becaufe 
it  is  the  manner  of  exprefhon  mod  natural  to  him.  A  certain. 
degree  of  negligence,  alfo,  is  not  inconfiftent  with  this  charac-  ^ 
ter  of  Style,  and  even  not  ungraceful  in  it ;  for  too  minute  an 
attention  to  words  is  foreign  to  it :  "  Habeat  ille,"  fays  Cicero, 
(Orat.  No.  77.)  "  molle  quiddam,  ct  quod  indicct  non  ingratam 
**  negligentiam  hominis,  de  re  magis  quam  de  vcrbo  laborantis."f 
This  is  the  great  advantage  of  Simplicity  of  Style,  that,  like  Sim- 
plicity of  manners,  it  (hows  us  a  man's  fentiments  and  turn  of 
mind  laid  open  without  difgiiife.  More  itudied  and  artificial 
manners  of  writing,  however  beautiful,  have  always  this  dif- 
advantage,  that  they  exhibit  an  author  in  form,  like  a  man  at 
court,  wliere  the  fplendor  of  drefs,  and  the  ceremonial  of  be- 
haviour, conceal  thofc  peculiarities  which  dillinguifh  one  man 
from  another.  But  reading  an  author  of  Simplicity,  is  like 
converfing  with  a  perfon  of  didinflion  at  home,  and  with  eafe, 
where  we  find  natural  manners,  and  a  marked  charafler. 

The  higheft  degree  of  this  Simplicity,  is  exprefled  by  a  French 
term,  to  which  we  have  none  that  fully  anfwers  in  our  Lan- 
guage, naivete-  It  is  not  eafy  to  give  a  precife  idea  of  the  im-. 
port  of  this  word.  It  always  exprefles  a  difcovery  of  charac- 
ter.    I  believe  the  befl  account  of  it  is  given  by  a  French  critic, 

M.  Marmontel, 

•"  From  well-known  tales  fuch  licflions  would  I  raifc, 
"As  all  niigiit  hope  to  imitate  with  tafe  ; 
"  Yet  while  they  ftrivc  tlie  lame  luccefs  to  g.n"n, 
"  Should  find  their  labours,  and  thtir  hopes  in  vain."         Francis. 

\  "  Let  this  Style  have  a  certain  foftncfs  and  cafe,  which  Hiall  charadlff 
"  ncgli^tnre.  not  unplcaling  in  aa  author,  who  appears  to  be  more  fa.i« 
"  about  the  thought  than  the  txprtnion." 


276  SIMPLICITY    AND  Lect.  XIX. 

M.  Marmontel,  who  explains  it  thus  :  That  fort  of  amiable  in- 
genuity, or  unJifguifed  opennefs,  which  feems  to  give  us  fomc 
degree  of  fuperiority  over  the  perfon  v/ho  Ihews  it ;  a  certain 
infantine  Simplicity)  which  we  love  in  our  hearts,  but  which 
difplays  feme  features  of  the  chara61;er  that  we  think  we  could 
have  art  enough  to  hide  j  and  which,  tlierefore,  always  leads  us 
to  fmile  at  the  perfon  who  difcovers  this  charadler.  La  Fon- 
taine, in  his  Fables,  is  given  as  the  great  example  of  fuch  nat'  • 
vete.  This,  however,  is  to  be  underftopd,  as  dcfcriptive  of  a 
particular  fpecics  only  of  Simplicity. 

With  refpedl  to  Simplicity  in  genera!,  we  may  remark,  that 
the  ancient  original  writers  are  always  the  mod  eminent  for  it. 
This  happens  from  a  plain  reafon,  that  they  wrote  from  the  dic- 
tates of  natilral  genius,  and  were  not  formed  upon  t,he  labours 
and  writings  of  others,  which  is  always  in  hazard  of  producing 
AfFe£l:ation.  '  Hence,  among  the  Greek  writers,  we  have  more 
models  of  a  beautiful  Simplicity  than  among  the  Reman.  Ho- 
mer, Hcfiod,  Anacrcon,  Theocritus,  Herodotus,  and  Xenophon, 
are  all  diftinguifned  for  it.  Among  the  Romans  aifo,.  we  have 
fome  writers  of  this  chara<Cl:er,  particularly  Terence,  Lucretius, 
Phcedrus,  and  Julius  C?efai*.  The  following  paiTage  of  Te- 
rence's Andria,  is  a  beautiful  infcance  of  3i"^plici,ty  of  manner 
in  defcription  : 

Funus  interim 
-    Procedit ;  fequirnur;  ad  fepulchruin  vcnimns  ;^ 

In  ignem  inipofju  eft  ;  llttur  ;  inierea  livuc  I'oror 

Quam  dixi,  ad  ilammau  accclTit  improd-ontius 

Satis  cam  pcriculo.  ,  Ibr  luni  exanimatus  Pamphilus, 

Bene  d'lTimulatum  amOr'em,  &  cela'tum  indicat; 
,  Occurrii  pispccps,  miiiitrqni  ,ab  *p;ne  rctrahit, 
'    Mea  Glyceriimi,  inquit,  quid  agis  ?  Curte  is  perditum  ;' 

Tiim  ilia,  ut  confuctum  facile  amorcm  comrtcs, 

Rejecit  fe  in  eum,  fiens  quam  familiaiiter.*  Act  I.  Sc.  7. 

All 
*  "  Meanwhile  the  funeral  proceeds  ;  ve  follow; 
"  Conic  to  tlie  fepulcli're  :   the  body's  plac'd  . 
"  Upon  the  pile  ;  lamriUed  ;  -whereupon 
«'  Tliis  filler,  1  was  fpeaking  of,  all  wild, 
"  Ran  to  the  flames  with  pe'  il  ot  her  liFe, 
"  There!  there!  the  frii;hted  Panii>hilus  !>etrays 
"  His  well  diflemM<;'d  and  long  hidden  love  ; 
"  Runs  up,  and  takes  her  roui^d  the  waill,  and  cries, 
*'  Oh  !  my  Glycerium  !  what  is  it  you  cio  ? 
■  "  '^''y-'  ■^''^'/j  endeavour  to  deftroy  yourft  If  ? 
•"Then  flie,  in  fuch  a  manner,  that  you  thence 
V.Miijht  eafily  perceive  their  long  lontr  love, 
''  'I'hrcv/  hcrfeU  i>ack  into  his  ai"r:iS,  aud  wept, 
'•  Ch!  how  familiarly !  Cqukai^. 


Lect.  XIX.       AFFECTATION  IN  STYLE.  -77 

All  the  words  here  are  remarkably  happy  and  elegant;  and 
convey  a  mofl  lively  pi£lure  of  the  fcene  defcribed  j  while,  at 
the  f^inie  time,  the  Style  appears  vi'holly  artlefs  and  unlaboured. 
Let  us,  next,  confider  fome  Englilh  writers  who  come  under 
this  clafs. 

Simplicity  is  the  great  beauty  of  Archbifliop  Tillotfon's  man-    >v 
ncr.     Tillotfon  has  long  been  admired  as  an  eloquent  writer, 
and  a  model  for  preaching.     ]5ut  his  eloquence,  if  wc  can  call, 
it  fuch,  has  been  often  mifunderflood.     For,  if  we  include,  ia 
the  idea  of  eloquence,  vehemence  and  ftrcngth,  pi£^urcfque  de- 
fcription,  glowing  figures,  or  corrc£l  arrangcm.ent  of  fentences,- 
in  all  thefe  parts  of  oratory  the  Archbifliop  is  exceedingly  de- 
ficient.    His  Style  is  always  pure,  indeed,  and  perfpicuous,  but 
carelefs  and  remifs,  too  often   feeble  and  languid  j  little  beau- 
n  ty  in  the  conftru£lion  of  his  fentences,  which  are  frequently 

fuffered  to  drag  unharmoniouily :  fcldom  any  attempt  towards 
ftrength  or  fublimity.  But,  notwithftanding  thefe  defeds,  fuch 
a  conRant  vein  of  good  fenfe  and  piety  runs  through  his  works, 
fuch  an  earncft  and  fjrious  manner,  and  fo  much  ufeful  inflruc- 
tion  conveyed  in  a  Style  fo  pure,  natural,  and  iinaiTectcd,  as 
will  juftly  recommend  him  to  high  regard,  as  long  as  theEng- 
lifii  Language  remains  ;  not,  indeed,  as  a  model  of  the  highell 
eloqueiice,  but  as  a  finiple  and  amiable  writer,,  whofe  manner 
is  ftrongly  exprelhvc  of  great  goodnefs  and  worth.  I  obferved 
before,  that  fimplicity  of  maimer  nvay  be  confident  with  fome  • 
degree  of  negligence  in  Style  ;  and  it  is, only  the  beauty  of  that 
Simplicity  which  makes  the  negligence  of  fuch  writers  feeni 
graceful.  But,  as  appears  in  the  Archbilhop,  negligence  may 
fomctimes  be  carried  fo  far  as  to  impair  the  beauty  of  Sim.plic- 
iry,  and  make  it  border  on  a  flat  and  languid  manner. 

Sir  William  Temple  is  another  remarkable  writer  in  the  Style 
of  Simplicity.  In  point  of  ornament  and  correii\nefs,  he  riles 
a  degree  above  Tillotfon  ;  though,  for  corrednefs,  he  is  not  in 
the  higheft  rank.  All  is  eafy  and  flowing  in  him  ;  he  is  ex- 
ceedingly harmoi^ious  ;  fmoothnefs,  and  what  may  be  called 
amccnity,  arc  the  dilllnguifliing  characters  of  his  manner;  re- 
laxing, fometirnes,  as  fuch  a  manner  m'IU  naturally  do,  into  a 
prolix  and  remifs  Style.  No  writer  whatever  has  (lamped  upon 
his  Style,  a  mere  lively  Impreflion  of  his  ov.n  charad.er.     In 

reading 


278  SIMPLICITY    AND  Lect.  XIX. 

reading  his  works,  we  feeni  engaged  in  converfation  with  him  ; 
we  become  thorougl.Iy  acquainted  with  him,  not  merely  as  an 
auihor,  but  as  a  man  ;  and  contract  a  friendihip  for  him.  He 
may  be  claffed  as  (landing  in  the  middle,  between  a  negligent 
Simplicity,  and  the  highefl  degree  of  Ornament,  which  this 
character  of  Style  admits. 

Of  tlie  latter  of  thefe,  the  highefl,  moft  correal,  and  orna- 
mented degree  of  the  fimple  manner,  INTr.  Addifon,  is,  beyond, 
doubt,  in  the  Englifh  Language,  the  mod  perfe6l  example  :  and, 
therefore,  though  not  without  fome  faults,  he  is,  on  the  whole» 
the  fafeft  model  for  imitation,  and  the  freefl  from  confiderable 
defeds,  which  the  Language  affords.  Perfpicuous  and  pure 
fee  is  in  the  highcO:  degree ;  his  precifion,  indeed,  not  very 
l^reat ;  yet  nearly  as  great  as  the  fubje£ls  which  he  treats  of  re- 
quire :  the  conflruftion  of  his  fentences  eafy,  agreeable,  and 
commonlv  very  mufical  i  carrying  a  characler  of  fmoothnefs, 
more  than  of  ftrength.  In  figurative  Language,  he  is  rich  ; 
particularly,  in  fimiles  and  metaphors ;  which  are  fo  employed, 
as  to  render  his  Style  fplendid  without  being  gaudy.  There 
is  not  the  leaft  Affectation  in  his  manner  ;  we  fee  no  marks  of 
labour  ;  nothing  forced  or  conftrained  ;  but  great  elegance 
joined  with  great  eafe  and  Simplicity.  He  is,  in  particular, 
didinguiflied  by  a  charafler  of  modefly,  and  of  politenef^;, 
which  appears  in  all  his  writings.  No  author  has  a  more  pop- 
ular and  infmuating  manner ;  and  the  great  regard  which  he 
every  where  fliews  for  virtue  and  religion,  recommends  him 
highly.  U  he  fails  in  any  thing,  It  is  in  want  of  ftrcngth  and 
precifion,  which  renders  his  manner,  though  perfe£lly  fuited  tc» 
fuch  eflays  as  he  writes  in  the  Spc£tator,  not  altogether  a  prop- 
er model  for  any  of  the  higher  and  more  elaborate  kinds  of  com- 
pofition.  Though  the  public  have  ever  done  much  jiiflice  to 
his  merit,  yet  the  nature  of  his  merit  has  not  always  been  feen. 
in  its  true  light :  for,  though  his  poetry  be  elegant,  he  certain- 
ly bears  a  higher  rank  among  the  profe  writers,  than  he  is  en- 
titled to  among  the  poets ;  and,  in  profe,  his  humour  is  of  a 
mucti  higher,  and  more  original  {train,  than  his  pliilofophy. 
The  character  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly  difcovcrs  more  genius 
than  the  critique  on  Milton. 

Such 


Lect.XIX.       affectation  in  style.  279 

Such  authors  as  thofe,  whofe  chara£lers  I  have  been  giving, 
one  never  tires  of  reading.  There  is  nothing  in  their  manner 
that  Rrains  or  fatigues  our  thoughts  :  we  are  pleafed,  without 
being  dazzled  by  their  luflre.  So  powerful  is  the  charm  of 
Simplicity,  in  an  author  of  real  genius,  that  it  atones  for  many 
defects, and  reconciles  us  tonvanya  carclefs  cxpreffion.  Hence, 
in  all  the  moll  excellent  authors,  both  in  profo  and  verfe,  the 
fimple  and  natural  manner  may  be  always  remarked  ;  although 
other  beauties  being  predominant,  this  form  not  their  peculiar 
and  diftinguifliing  character.  Thus  Milton  is  fimple  in  the 
midrc  of  all  his  grandeur;  and  Demofthencs  in  the  midll  of 
all  his  vehemence.  To  grave  and  folemn  writings.  Simplicity  of 
manner  adds  the  more  venerable  air.  Accordingly,  this  has 
often  been  remarked  as  the  prevailing  chara6ler  throughout 
all  the  facred  Scriptures  :  and  indeed  no  other  character  of 
Style  was  fo  much  fuited  to  the  dignity  of  infpiration. 

Of  authors,  who,  notwithftanding  many  excellencies,  have 
rendered  their  Style  mucli  lefs  beautiful  by  want  of  Simplicity, 
I  cannot  give  a  more  remarkable  example  than  Lord  Shafteihury. 
This  is  an  author  on  whom  I  have  mafle  obfervations  feveral 
times  befoi'e,  and  fhail  now  take  leave  of  liim,  with  giving  his 
general  character  under  this  head.  Confiderable  merit,  doubt- 
lefs,  he  has.  His  works  might  be  read  witli  profit  for  the 
moral  philofophy  which  they  contain,  had  he  not  filled  them 
with  fo  many  oblique  and  invidious  iuunuations  agaiud'the 
Chriftian  Religion  ;  thrown  out,  too,  with  fo  much  fpken  and 
fatire,  as  do  no  honour  to  his  memory,  either  as  an  author  or 
a  man.  His  language  has  many  beauties.  It  is  firm,  and  fup- 
pm'ted  in  an  uncommon  degree  ;  it  is  rich  and  mufical.  No 
Englifli  author,  as  I  formerly  fiiewed,  has  attended  fo  to  the 
regular  conflrudion  of  his  fentences,  both  with  refpe6l  to  pro- 
priety, and  with  refpe£l  to  cadence.  All  this  gives  fo  much 
elegance  and  pomp  to  his  language,  that  there  is  no  wonder  it 
lliould  have  been  fometimes  highly  admired.  It  is  greatly 
hurt,  however,  by  perpetual  ftiffnefs  and  affedtation.  This  is 
its  capital  fault.  His  lordfliip  can  exprcfs  nothing  with  Sim- 
plicity. He  fcems  to  have  confidered  it  as  vulgar,  and  beneath 
the  dignity  of  a  man  of  quality  to  fpeak  like  other  men.  ILncc 
he  is  ever  in  bulkins  j  full  of  circumlocutions  and  artificial  el- 
egance. 


ago  SIMPLICITY,    &c.     ,      Lect.XIX. 

egance.  In  every  fentence,  we  fee  the  mark?  of  labour  and  art ; 
notliiiig  of  that  cafe,  which  exprefles  a  fentiment  coming  nat- 
urally and  warm  frcrn  the  heart.  Cf  figures  and  ornament 
of  every  kind,  heisexxeeilingly  fond  ;  fometimes  happy  in  them  ; 
but  his  fondnefs  for  them  is  too  vifible  ;  and  having  once  laid 
hold  of  fome  metaphor  or  aUufion  that  pleafed  him,  he  knows 
not  how  to  part  with  it.  What  is  mod  Vv^ondcrful,  he  was  a  pro- 
feffed  admirer  of  Simplicity ;  is  always  extoHing  it  in  the  ancients, 
and  cenfuring  the  moderns  for  the  want  of  it ;  though  he  departs 
from  it  himfelf  as  far  as  any  one  modern  whatever.  Lord 
S]iaftefbur)'poireired  delicacy  and  refinement  of  tart;e,to  a  degree 
that  we  may  call  exceflive  and  fiekly  ;  but  he  had  little  warmth 
of  paflion  ;  few  flrcng  or  vigorous  feelings  :  and  the  coldnefs  of 
his  charatler  led  him  to  that  artificial  and  ftately  manner  which 
appears  in  his  writings.  He  was  fonder  of  nothing  than  of 
wit  and  raillery  ;  but  he  is  far  from  being  happy  in  it.  He  at- 
tempts it  often,  but  always  awkwardly  •,  he  is  ftifF,  even  in  his 
pleafantrv  ;  and  laughs  in  form,  like  an  author,  and  not  like  a 
man.* 

From  the  account  which  I  have  given  of  Lord  Shaftefbury's 
manner,  it  may  eafily  be  imagined,  that  he  would  miilead  many 
who  blindly  admired  him.  Nothing  is  more  dangerous  to  the 
tribe  of  imitators,  than  an  author,  who,  with  many  impofing 
beauties,  has  alfo  fome  very  confiderable  blemifhes.  This  is 
fully  amplified  in  Mr.  Blackwall  of  Aberdeen,  the  author  of  the 
Life  of  Homer,  the  Letters  on  Mythology,  and  the  Court  of 
-Augullus  ;  a  writer  of  confiderable  learning,  and  of  ingenuity 
alfo  J  but  infe6led  with  an  extravagant  love  of  an  artificial  Style, 
and  of  that  parade  of  language  which  didinguifiies  the  Shaftef- 
burean  manner. 

Having  now  faid  fo  much  to  recommend  Simplicity,  or  the 

eafy  and  natural  manner  of  writing,  and  having  pointed  out  the 

defeats  of  an  oppofite  manner  ;  in  order  to  prevent  miilakes  on 

this  fubjedl,  it  is  necefiary  for  mc  to  obferve,  that  it  is  very  pof- 

fible 

*  It  may  perh^fps  Tie  not  unworthy  cf  Iieing  mentioned,  that  the  firft  edition 
of  his  Enquiry  into  Virtue  was  piihliHicd,  furreptitioully,  I  believe,  in  a  feparate 
form,  in  the  year  1699;  and  is  iomciiines  t()  be  met  with  ;  by  comparing  which, 
with  the  correcled  edition  of  tlic  fame  treatile,  as  it  now  ftands  among  his 
works,  we  fee  one  of  tlic  moil  curious  and  ufeful  examples  that  I  know,  of  what 
is  called  Lima  lahor  \  the  art  of  polifliing  Langaa£;e,  breaking  long  fentence$, 
and  -working  up  an  iuiptrfect  draught  into  a  higlily  finifned  performance. 


Lect.  XrX.        VEHEMENT   STYLE.  28X 

fible  for  an  author  to  write  fimply,  and  yet  not  beautifully. 
One  may  be  free  from  affectation  and  not  have  merit.  The 
beautiful  Simplicity  fuppofes  an  author  to  pofTcfs  real  genius ; 
to  write  with  folidity,  purity,  and  livelinefs  of  imagination. 
In  this  cafe,  the  fimplicity  or  unaffe£lednefs  of  his  man- 
ner, is  the  crowning  ornament ;  it  heightens  every  other 
beauty  ;  it  is  the  drefs  of  nature,  witliout  which,  all  beauties 
are  imperfedt.  But  if  mere  unaffetlednefs  were  fufhcient  to 
conditute  the  beauty  of  Style,  weak,  trifling,  and  dull  writers 
may  often  lay  claim  to  this  beauty.  And,  accordingly,  we  fre- 
quently meet  with  pretended  critics,  who  extol  the  dulled  wri- 
ters on  account  of  what  they  call  the  "  Chafte  Simplicity  of  their 
**  manner ;"  which,  in  truth,  is  no  other  than  the  abfence  of  ev- 
ery other  ornament,  through  the  mere  want  of  genius  and  imag- 
ination. We  mult  diftinguifh,  therefore,  between  that  Simplic- 
ity which  accompanies  true  genius,  and  which  is  perfectly  com- 
patible with  every  proper  ornament  of  Style,  and  that  which 
is  no  other  than  a  carclefs  and  flovenly  manner.  Indeed,  the 
<liilin6lion  is  eafily  made  from  the  effe£l  produced.  The  one 
never  fails  £0  interelt  the  reader  j  the  other  is  infipid  and  tire- 
fome. 

I  proceed  to  mention  one  other  manner  or  chara£tcr  of  Style, 
different  from  any  that  I  have  yet  fpoken  of ;  which  may  be  dif- 
tinguiihed  by  the  name  of  the  Vehement.  This  aKvays  implies 
llrength ;  and  isnot,by  any  means,  inconfiftent  with  Simplicity; 
but  in  its  predominant  character  is  diftinguifh«Jjle  from  either 
the  (Iroiig  or  the  fimple  manner.  It  has  a  pecuiwr  ardour ;  it  is 
a  glowing  Style  ;  the  language  of  a  man,  whofe  imagination  and 
paflions  are  heated,  and  ftrongly  affected  by  what  he  writes  ; 
who  is  therefore  negligent  of  leffcr  graces,  but  pours  himfel£ 
forth  with  the  rapidity  and  fulnefs  of  a  torrent.  It  belongs  to 
the  higher  kinds  of  oratory  j  and  indeed  is  rather  expe£led 
from  a  mm  who  is  fpeaking,  than  from  a  man  who  is  writing 
in  his  clofet.  The  orations  of  Demofthencs  furnifh  the  full 
and  perfect  example  of  this  fpecies  of  Style. 

Among  Engliih  writers,  the    one    who  has  mofl:  of   this 

character,   though    mixed,    indeed,    with    fevcral  defers,    is 

Lord  Bolingbroke.     Bolingbroke  was  formed  by  nature  to  be 

a  faitiou;;  leader;    the  demagoi^uc    of    a   popular   allembly. 

N  N  Accordingly, 


2?.2  GENERAL  CHARACTERS        Lect.  XIX. 

Accordingly,  the  Style  that  runs  through  all  his  political  writ- 
ings, is  that  of  one  declaiming  with  heat,  rather  than  writ- 
ing with  deliberation.  He  abounds  in  rhetorical  figures ; 
and  pours  himfclf  forth  with  great  impctuofity.  He  is  co- 
pious to  a  fault ;  places  the  fame  thought  before  us  in  many 
different  views  j  but  generally  with  life  and  ardour.  He  is 
bold,  rather  than  corre£l ;  a  torrent  that  flows  ftrong,  but  often 
muddy.  His  fentences  are  varied  as  to  length  and  (liortnefs ; 
inclining,  however,  mod  to  long  periods,  fomctimcs  including 
parenthefes,  and  frequently  crowding  and  heaping  a  multitude 
of  things  upon  one  another,  as  naturally  happens  in  the  warmth 
of  fpeaking.  In  the  choice  of  his  words,  there  is  great  felicity 
and  precifion.  In  exacfl  conn.ru6lion  of  fentences,  he  is  much 
inferior  to  Lord  Shafieibury  ;  but  greatly  fuperior  to  him  in  life 
and  eafe.  Upon  the  whole,  his  merit  as  a  writer,  would  have 
been  very  confidernblc,  if  his  matter  had  equalled  his  Style.  But 
whilft  we  find  many  things  to  commend  in  the  latter,  in  the 
former,  as  I  before  remarked,  we  can  hardly  find  any  thing  to 
commend.  In  his  reafonings,  for  mod  part,  he  is  flimfy  and 
f«lfe  ;  in  his  political  writings,  factious  ;  in  what  he  calls  his 
philofophical  ones,  irreligious  and  fophiftical  in  the  higheft 
degree. 

I  fliall  infifi:  no  longer  on  the  different  manners  of  writers,  or 
the  General  Characters  of  Style.  Some  other,  befides  thofe 
which  I  have  mentioned,  might  be  pointed  out  -,  but  I  am  fen- 
fible,  that  it  is  JBgty  difficult  to  feparate  fuch  general  confidera- 
tions  of  the  StfEi  of  authors  from  their  peculiai^  turn  of  fenti- 
ment,  which  it  Is  not  my  bufinefs,  at  prefent,  to  criticife.  Con- 
ceited MTiters,  for  inflance,  difcover  their  fpirit  fo  much  in 
their  compofition,  that  it  imprints  on  their  Style  a  character  of 
pertnefs ;  though  I  confefs,  it  is  difficult  to  fay,  whether  this 
can  be  <:laffed  among  the  attributes  of  Style,  or  rather  is  to  be 
afcribed  entirely  to  the  thought.  In  whatever  clafs  we  rank  it, 
r.ll  appearances  of  it  ought  to  be  avoided  with'  care,  as  a  moft 
difgultlng  blemifrt  in  writing.  Under  thofe  general  heads, 
which  I  have  confidered,  I  have  talvcn  an  opportunity  of  giv- 
ing the  character  of  many  of  the  eminent  clalllcs  in  the  Englilh 
Language. 

From  what  I  have  fald  on  this  fubjecl,  it  may  be  inferred, 
that  to  determine  among  all  thofe  diuercnt  manners  of  writing, 

wliat 


Lect.  XIX.  O  F      S  T  Y  L  E.  283 

what  is  precifely  the  bed,  is  neither  eafy,  nor  neceflary.  Style 
is  a  field  that  admits  of  great  latitude.  Its  qualities  in  different 
authors  may  be  very  different  •,  and  yet  in  them  all  beautiful. 
Room  mult  be  left  liere  for  genius  ;  for  that  particular  deter- 
mination which  every  one  receives  from  nature  to  one  manner 
of  expreffion  more  than  another.  Some  general  qualities,  in- 
deed, there  are  of  fuch  importance,  as  fho'ald  always,  in  every 
kind  of  compofiiion,  be  kept  in  view  ;  and  fome  defeds  we 
lliould  always  fludy  to  avoid.  An  oflentatious,  a  feeble,  a  harflij,  , 
or  an  obfcure  Style,  for  inlfance,  are  always  faults  ;  and  Per- 
fpicuity,  Strength,  Neatnefs,  and  Simplicity,  are  beauties  to  be 
always  aimed  at.  But  as  to  the  mixture  of  all,  or  the  degree 
of  predominancy  of  any  one  of  thefe  good  qualities,  for  form- 
ing our  peculiar  diftinguifhing  manner,  no  precife  rules  can  be 
given  ;  nor  will  I  venture  to  point  out  any  one  model  as  abfo- 
lutcly  perfe£l. 

It  will  be  more  to  the  purpofe,  that  I  conclude  thefe  differta- 
tlons  upon  Style,  with  a  few  directions  concerning  the  proper 
method  of  attaining  a  good  Style  in  general  ;  leaving  the  par- 
ticular chara£ler  of  that  Style  to  be  either  formed  by  the  fubje£l 
on  which  we  write,  or  prompted  by  the  bent  of  genius. 

The  firft  dire£lion  which  I  give  for  this  purpofe  is,  to  fludy 
clear  ideas  on  the  fubje£l  concerning  which  we  are  to  write  or 
fpeak.  This  is  a  direction  whicli  may  at  firft  appear  to  have 
fmall  relation  to  Stvle.  Its  relation  to  it,  however,  is  extreme- 
ly clofe.  The  foundation  of  all  good  Style,  is  good  fenfe  ac- 
companied with  a  lively  imagination.  •  The  Style  and  thoughts 
of  a  writer  are  fo  intimately  conne£led,  that,  as  I  have  feveral 
times  hinted,  it  is  frequently  hard  to  diflinguifh  them.  \Vhere- 
ever  the  imprcffions  of  things  upon  our  minds  are  fr.int  and  in- 
diilindl,  or  perplexed  and  confufed,  our  Style  in  treating'  of 
fuch  things  will  infallibly  be  fo  too.  Whereas,  what  we  conceive 
clearly  and  feel  ftrongly,  we  will  naturally  exprefs  with  clearnefs 
and  with  flrength.  This,  then,  we  may  be  afiured,  is  a  capital 
rule  as  to  Style,  to  think  clofely  of  the  fubjeO,  till  we  have 
attained  a  full  and  diftindl  view  of  the  matter  which  we  arc  to 
clothe  in  words-  till  we  become  warm  and  interefted  in  it ;  then, 
and  not  till  then,  (hall  v.e  find  expreffion  begin  to  flow.  Goi- 
crally  fpeaking,  the  befl  and  mod  proper  exprefTions,  are  thofc 

which 


284  DIRECTIONS    FOR         Lect.  XIX. 

which  a  clear  view  of  the  fubjeft  fuggefts,  without  much  la- 
bour or  inquiry  after  tliem.  This  is  Q^intiliaivs  obfervation. 
Lib.  viii.  c.  I.  "  Plerumque  optinia.  verba  rebus  cohxrent, 
**  et  cernuntur  fuo  lumine.  At  nos  quxrimus  ilia,  tanquam 
*'  lateant  leque  fubducant.  Ita  nunquam  putamus  verba  eflk 
"  circa  id  de  quo  dicenduin  e(l  -,  fed  ex  aliis  locis  petimus  et 
*'  invcntis  vim  afFerimus."* 

In  tiie  fccond  place,  in  order  to  form  a  good  Style,  the  fre- 
quent pra£lice  of  compofing  is  indifpenfably  neceflary.  Many 
rules  concerning  Style  I  have  delivered  ;  but  no  rules  will  an- 
fwer  the  end,  without  exercife  and  habit.  {  At  the  fame  time, 
it  is  not  every  fort  of  compofing  that  will  improve  Style.  This 
is  fo  far  from  being  the  cafe,  tliat  by  frequent,  carelcfs,  and 
hafty  compofition,  we  fhall  acquire  certainly  a  very  bad  Style  ; 
we  fliould  have  more  trouble  afterwards  in  unlearning  faults, 
and  correcting  negligences,  than  if  we  had  not  been  accuilcm-. 
ed  to  compofition  at  all.  In  the  beginning,  therefore,  we  ought 
to  write  flowly,  and  with  much  care.  Let  the  facility  and  fpeed 
of  writing,  be  the  fruit  of  longer  practice.  *'  Moram  et  follci- 
*'  tudinem,"  faysQiiintilian  with  the  greatefl  reafon,  L.  x.  c.  3. 
*'  iilitiis  impero.  Nam  primum  hoc  conliituendem  ac  obtinen.. 
*'  dum  eft,  ut  quam  optime  fcribamus  :  celerltatem  dabit 
"  confuetudo.  Paulatim  res  facilius  fe  oftendent,  verba  re- 
"  fpondebunt,  compofitio  profequetur.  Cun6la  denique  ut  in 
*'  familia  bene  inftituta  in  officio  erunt.  Summa  hacc  eft  rei ; 
*'  cito  fcribendo  non  fit  ut  bene  fcribatur ;  bene  fcribexido,  fit 
^'  ut  cito."t      , 

We  muft  obferve,  however,  that  there  may  be  an  extreme', 

in  too  great  and  anxious  a  care    about  words.      We  muft. 

not 

*  "  The  Bioft  proper  viord*  for  the  moft  part  adbere  to  the  thoughts  whick 
**  are  to  be  exprcflcd  by  them,  and  may  bt  difcovcred  as  Hy  tlitii  own  light. 
"  But  we  hunt  after  tlitni,  as  if  thev  vtre  hidckn.  and  only  to  he  found  in  a 
''  corner.  Kence,  inflead  of  ctinceiving  the  words  to  lie  near  the  ful<ic<ft,  wc 
•'  go  in  queft  of  them  to  fome  otlicr  quarter,  ^juid  endeavour  to  give  force  to 
"  the  txprcfluons  we  have  found  out." 

f  *'  I  etjjoin  that  fuch  as  are  beginning  the  pra^Icc  of  compofitfon,  write 
«  flowly,  and  "^vith  anxious  deliberation.  Their  great  obJKit  at  firftfliould  be, 
«' to  write  as  veil  as  jiofTible;  pr;i<ftice  will  enable  thtm  to  write  fpcedily. 
"  By  degrees  matter  will  offer  iffelf  more  readily  ;  words  will  be  at  h-md  : 
«'  compofition  will  flow  ;  every  thing, as  in  ihe  arrangement  of  a  wcll-ordtrtd^ 
"  family,  will  prcftnt  itfelf  in  its  pro|)er  place.  '1  he  him  of  the  whole  h  tlii.s  ; 
*'  by  hafty  compofition,  we  fliali  never  acquiie  the  art  of  compoling  well;  by 
*'  writing  v/ell,  we  fliall  lca*n  to  write  jpecdily." 


Lect.XIX.       forming     STYLE.  J185 

not  retard  the  courfe  of  thought,  nor  cool  the  heat  of  imagina- 
tion, by  paufing  too  long  on  every  word  we  employ.  There  is, 
on  certam  occafions,  a  glow  of  compofition  which  fliould  be 
kept  up,  if  we  hope  to  exprefs  ourlclves  happily,  though  at  the 
expeni'e  of  allowing  fome  inadvertencies  to  pafs.  A  more  fevere 
examination  of  thefe  mud  be  left  to  be  the  work  of  correction. 
For,  if  the  pratlice  of  compofition  be  ufeful,  the  laborious  work 
of  corre£ting  is  no  Icfs  fo  j  is  indeed  abfolutely  neeeflary  to  our 
reaping  any  benefit  from  the  habit  of  compofition.  "What  we 
have  writtci),  flrjuld  be  laid  by  for  fome  little  time,  till  the  ar- 
dour of  compofition  be  paft,  till  the  fondnefs  for  the  exprcfiions 
we  have  ufed  be  worn  ofF,  and  the  expreflions  themfelves  be  for- 
gotten ;  and  then,  reviewing  our  work  with  a  cool  and  critical 
eye,  as  if  it  were  the  performance  of  another,  we  fliali  difceru 
many  imperfcQions  which  at  firft  efcaped  us.  Then  is  the  fea- 
fon  for  pruning  redundancies  ;  for  weighing  the  arrangement  of 
fentences  ;  for  attending  to  the  jun6lure  and  conne£ling  parti- 
cles J  and  bringing  Style  into  a  regular,  correct  and  fupported 
form.  This  "  Lima  Labor"  muft  be  fubmitted  to  by  all  who 
would  communicate  their  thoughts  with  proper  advantage  to 
others ;  and  fome  pracftice  in  it  will  foon  fharpen  their  eye  to 
the  moft  necefiary  objefls  of  attention,  and  render  it  a  much 
more  eafy  and  pracSlicable  work  than  might  at  firft  be  imagined. 
In  the  third  place,  with  refpedl  to  the  afliftance  that  is  to 
be  gained  from  the  writings  of  others,  it  is  obvious,  that  we 
ought  to  render  ourfelves  well  acquainted  with  the  Style  of 
the  befl  autliors.  '  This  is  requifite  both  in  order  to  forni  a 
juft  tafte  in  Style,  and  to  fupply  us  v/ith  a  full  fi.ock  of  words 
on  every  fubjed^.  In  reading  authors,  with  a  view  to  Style,  at- 
tention fliould  be  given  to  the  peculiarities  of  their  dificrent 
manners  ;  and  in  this,  and  former  Ledturcs,  I  have  endeavour- 
ed to  fugged  feveral  things  that  may  be  ufeful  in  this  view. 
I  know  no  exerclfe  that  will  be  found  more  ufeful  for  acquir- 
ing a  proper  Style,  than  to  tranllate  fome  pall-.igc  from  an  emi- 
nent Englifli  author,  into  our  own  words.  What  I  mean  is,  to 
take,  for  indance,  fome  page  of  one  of  Mr.  Addifon's  Specta- 
tors, and  read  it  carefully  over  two  or  three  times,  till  wc 
have  got  a  firm  hold  of  the  thoughts  contained  in  it ;  then  to 
lay  afide  the  book  ;  to  attempt   to    write  out  the  pafiage  frooj 

memory. 


2S6  DIRECTIONS     FOR         Lect.XIX, 

memory,  in  the  befl;  way  we  can  ;  and  having  done  fo,  next  to 
open  the  book,  and  compare  what  we  have  written,  with  the 
Style  of  the  author.  Such  an  exercife  will,  by  compariibn, 
iliew  us  where  the  defects  of  our  Style  lie ;  will  lead  us  to  the 
proper  attentions  for  redlifying  them ;  and,  among  the  differ- 
ent ways  in  which  the  fame  thought  may  be  exprefied,  will 
make  us  perceive  that  which  is  the  mod  beautiful.     But, 

In  the  fourth  place,  I  mufl  caution,  at  the  fame  time,  againfl: 
a  fervlle  imitation  of  any  one  author  whatever.  This  is  always 
dangerous.  It  hampers  genius ;  it  is  likely  to  produce  a  llifT 
manner ;  and  thofe  who  are  given  to  clofc  imitation,  generally 
imitate  an  author's  faults  as  well  as  his  beauties.  '  No  man  will 
ever  become  a  good  writer,  or  fpcaker,  who  has  not  fome  de- 
gree of  confidence  to  follow  his  own  genius.  Wc  ought  to  be- 
ware, in  particular,  of  adopting  any  author^s  noted  phrafcs,  or- 
tranfcribing  paflages  from  him.  Such  a  habit  will  prove  fatal 
to  all  genuine  compofition.  Infinitely  better  it  is  to  have  fome- 
thing  that  is  our  own,  though  of  moderate  beauty,  than  to  af- 
fe6l  to  fliine  in  borrowed  ornaments,  which  will,  at  lafi,  betray 
the  utter  poverty  of  our  genius.  On  thefe  heads  of  compofing, 
correcting,  reading,  and  imitating,  I  advife  every  (ludent  of  or- 
atory to  confult  what  Quintilian  has  delivered  in  the  Xth  book 
of  his  Inftitutions,  where  he  will  find  a  variety  of  excellent  ob- 
fervatlons  and  directions,  that  well  deferve  attention. 

In  the  fifth  place,  it  is  an  obvious,  but  material  rule,  with 
refpe£l  to  Style,  that  we  always  (ludy  to  adapt  it  to  the  fubjedl, 
and  alfo  to  the  capacity  of  our  heai'ers,  if  we  are  to  fpeak  in 
public.  (  Nothing  merits  the  name  of  eloquent  or  beautiful, 
which  is  not  fuited  to  the  occafion,  and  to  the  perfons  to  whon> 
it  is  addreffed.  It  is  to  the  lad  degree  awkward  and  abfurd,  to 
attempt  a  poetical  florid  Style,  on  occafions  when  it  fliould  b< 
our  bufinefs  only  to  argue  and  reafon  j  or  to  fpeak  with  elabor- 
ate pomp  of  exprcflion,  before  perfons  who  comprehen-d  noth- 
ing of  it,  and  who  can  only  flare  at  our  unfeafonable  magnifi- 
cence. Thefe  are  defedls  not  fo  much  in  point  of  Style,  as, 
what  is  much  worfe,  in  point  of  common  fenfe.  When  we  be- 
gin to  write  or  fpeak,  we  ought  previoufly  to  fix  in  our  minds 
a  clear  conception  of  the  end  to  be  aimed  at  •,  to  keep  this 
fteadily  in  our  view,  and  tofuit  our  Style  to  it.  If  we  do- 
not 


Lect.XIX.        forming     STYLE.  287 

not  facrifice  to  this  great  o'uje'^j  every  Ul-tlined  ornament  that 
may  occur  to  our  fancy,  we  are  unpardonable  ;  and  though 
children  and  fools  may  admire,,  men  of  feufe  will  laugh  at  us 
and  our  Style. 

In  the  laft  place,  I  cannot  conclude  the  fubje'51  without  this 
admonition,  that,  in  any  cafe,  and  on  any  occafion,  attention  to 
Style  mull:  not  engrofs  us  fo  much,  as  to  detra6l  from  a  higher 
degree  of  attention  to  the  thoughts ;  |"  Curam  verborum,"  fays 
the  great  Roman  critic,  "  rerum  volo  efle  folicitudinem.'"* 
A  direction  the  more  necclTary,  as  the  prefent  taile  of  the 
age  in  writing,  feems  to  lean  more  to  Style  than  to  thought. 
It  is  much  eafier  to  drefs  up  trivial  and  commoa  fentimcnts 
with  fome  beauty  of  exprelhon,  than  to  afford  a  fund  of  vigor- 
ous, Ingenious,  and  ufeful  thoughts.  The  latter,  requires  true 
genius  i  the  former,  may  be  attained  by  induflry,  with  the  help 
of  very  fuperficial  parts.  Hence,  we  find  (o  many  writers  friv- 
oloufly  rich  in  Style,  but  wretchedly  poor  in  fcntiment.  The 
public  ear  is  now  fo  much  accuftomed  to  a  correcl  and  orna- 
mented Style,  that  no  writer  can,  with  fafety,  neglect  the  ftudy 
of  it.  But- he  is  a  contemptible  one  who  does  not  look  to  fome- 
thing  beyond  it ;  who  does  not  lay  the  chief  ftrefs  upon  his 
matter,  and  employ  fuch  ornaments  of  Style  to  recommend  it, 
as  are  manly,  not  foppifh  :  "  Majore  animo,"  fays  the  writer 
whom  I  have  fo  often  quoted,  "  aggredienda  eil  eloquentia  ; 
*'  qu?e  fi  toto  corpore  valet,  ungues  polire  et  capillum  compo- 
*'  nere,  non  exidimabit  ad  curam  fuam  pertinere.  Ornatus  et 
*'  virilis  et  fortis,  et  fanctus  fit ;  nee  effeminatam  levitatem,  et 
*'  fuco  ementitum  colorem  amet ;  fanguine  et  virltrus  niteat."-|- 

*  "  T«  yourcxpreflion  be  attentive  :  bat  about  your  matter  be  felicitous." 

f  "  A' iiiglier  fplrit  ought  to  animate  thofe  wjio  (liidy  eloquence.  They 
*'  ought'to  confuit  the  health  and  fouudncfs  of  the  whole  body,  rather  tliaa 
"  bend  their  attention  to  luch  trifling  objcAs  as  paring  the  nails,  and  drclfing 
"  the  hair.  Let  ornament  be  manly  and  chafle,  wiihout  tfTi-niinatc  gaiety, 
"  or  artificial  colouring  ;  let  it  fliiiic  with  the  glow  of  health  and  ftreogth." 


LECTURE 


LECTURE        XX. 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  THE  STYLE  OF  MR. 
ADDISON,  IN  No.  411  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

J-  HAVE  infiftcd  fully  on  the  fubjefl:  of  Language  and 
Style,  both  becaufc  it  is,  in  itfclf,  of  great  importance,  and  be- 
caufe  it  is  more  capable  of  being  afcertained  by  precife  rule, 
than  feveral  other  parts  of  compofition.  A  critical  analyfis  of 
the  Style  of  feme  good  author  will  tend  further  to  illuftrate  the 
fubje6l  )  as  it  will  fugged  obfervations  which  I  have  not  had 
occafion  to  make,  and  will  fliow,  in  the  moll  pra6lical  light,  the 
ufc  of  thofc  which  I  have  made. 

Mr.  Addifon  is  the  author  whom  I  have  chofen  for  this  pur- 
pofe.  The  Spe£lator,  of  which  his  papers  are  the  chief  orna- 
ment, is  a  book  which  is  in  the  hands  of  every  one,  and  which 
cannot  be  praifed  too  highly.  The  good  fenfe,  and  good  writ- 
ing, the  ufeful  morality,  and  the  admirable  vein  of  humour 
which  abound  in  it,  render  it  one  of  thofc  flandard  books  which 
have  done  the  greateft  honour  to  the  Englifii  nation.  I  have 
formerly  given  the  general  charadler  of  Mr.  Addifon's  Style 
and  manner,  as  natural  and  unafFetled,  eafy  and  polite,  and 
full  of  thofe  graces  which  a  flowery  imagination  difFufes  over 
writing.  At  the  fame  time,  though  one  of  the  moft  beautiful 
writers  in  the  Language,  he  is  not  the  moll  correal ;  a  circum- 
ftancc  v/hich  renders  his  compofition  the  more  proper  to  be 
the  fubjccl  of  our  prefent  criticifm.  The  free  and  flowing 
manner  of  tliis  amiable  writer  fometimes  led  him  into  inaccura- 
cies, which  the  more  ftudied  circumfpe6tion  and  care  of  far  in- 
ferior writers  have  taught  them  to  avoid.  Remarking  his  beau- 
ties, therefore,  which  I  Hiall  have  frequent  occafion  to  do  as  t 
proceed,  I  mud  alfo  point  out  his  negligence  and  defedls. 
Without  a  free,  impartial  difcuflion  of  both  the  faults  and 

beauties 


Lect.  XX.       CRITICAL  EXAMINATION,  &c.  289 

beauties  which  occur  in  his  compofition,  it  is  evident,  this  piece 
of  criticifm  would  be  of  no  fcrvice  :  and,  from  the  freedom 
which  I  uie  in  criticifing  Mr.  Addifon's  Styde,  none  can  ini- 
agine,  that  I  mean  to  depreciate  his  writings,  after  having  re- 
peatedly declared  the  high  opinion  which  I  entertain  of  them. 
The  beauties  of  this  author  are  fo  many,  and  the  general  char- 
aifler  of  his  Style  is  fo  elegant  and  eftimable,  that  the  minute 
imperfe£lions  I  fliall  have  occafion  to  point  out,  are  but  like 
thofe  fpots  in  the  fun  which  may  be  difcovered  by  the  aflillance 
of  art,  but  which  have  no  effeiSt  in  obfcuring  its  luflre.  It  is, 
indeed,  my  judgment,  that  what  Quintilian  applies  to  Cicero, 
"  lUe  fe  profcciffe  fciat,  cui  Cicero  valde  pl.icebit,"  may,  with 
juftice,  be  applied  to  Mr.  Addifon  ;  that  to  be  higiily  pleafed 
with  his  manner  of  writing,  is  the  criterion  of  one's  having  ac- 
quired a  good  talle  in  Englifli  Style.  The  paper  on  which  we 
are  now  to  enter,  is  No.  411,  the  firft  of  his  celebrated  Eilays 
on  the  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  in  the  Sixth  Volume  of 
the  Spe<Stator.     It  begins  thus  : 

"  Our  fight  is  the  moft  perfect,  and  mofl  delightful  of  all 
*'  our  fenfes." 

This  is  an  excellent  introductory  fentence.  It  is  clear,  pre- 
cife,  and  fimple.  The  author  lays  down,  iti  a  few  plain  words, 
the  propofition  which  he  is  going  to  illuftrate  throughout  the 
reft  of  the  paragraph.  In  this  manner,  we  Ihould  always  fet 
out.  A  firft  fentence  (hould  feldom  be  a  long,  and  never  an 
intricate  one. 

He  might  haive  faid,  Ourjtght  is  the  mojl  perfeEly  and  the  moji 
delightful.  But  he  has  judged  better  in  omitting  to  repeat  the 
article,  the.  For  the  repetition  of  it  is  proper,  chiefly  when  we 
intend  to  point  out  the  objeQs,  of  which  we  fpeak,  as  diftin- 
guiflied  from,  or  contrafted  with,  each  other  j  and  when  we 
want  that  the  reader's  attention  (hould  reft  on  that  diltindion. 
For  inftance ;  had  Mr.  Addifon  intended  to  fayi  That  our 
fight  is  at  once  the  moft  delightful^  and  the  moft  ufeful^  of  all 
our  fenfes,  the  article  might  then  have  been  repeated  with  pro- 
priety, as  a  clear  and  ftrong  diftindtion  would  have  been  con- 
veyed. But  as  htiwttn  perfeB  and  delightful,  there  is  lefs  con- 
traft,  there  was  no  occafion  for  fuch  repetition.  It  would  have 
O  0  had 


29©  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.XX. 

had  no  otlicr  efl"e£l,  but  to  add  a  word  unneceflarily  to  the  fen- 
tcncc.     He  proceeds : 

"  It  fills  the  mind  with  the  largeft  variety  of  ideas,  converfes 
"  with  its  cbjeiTts  at  the  grcatefl;  diflauce,  and  continues  the 
"  longelt  in  adion,  without  being  tired  or  fatiated  with  its 
"  proper  enjoyments." 

This  fentence  deferves  attention,  as  remarkably  harmonious, 
an^  well  con{lru£led.  It  poflelles,  indeed,  almofl:  all  the  prop- 
erties of  a  perfe6l  fentence.  It  is  entirely  perfpicuous.  It  is 
loaded  with  no  fuperfluous  or  unnecelTary  words.  For,  tired 
orfttuited,  towards  the  cn<\  of  the  fentence,  are  not  ufed  for  fy- 
nonimous  terms.  They  convey  diftin^l  ideas,  and  refer  to  dif- 
ferent members  of  the  period  -,  that  this  fenfe  continues  the  long- 
ejl  in  action^  tuitksut  being  tireil^  that  is,  without  being  fatigued 
with  its  a£lion-,  and  alfo,  without  hcvcig  fatiated  nvith  its  proper 
enjovnetits.  That  quality  of  a  good  fentence,  which  I  termed 
Its  unity,  is  here  perfe£lly  preferved.  It  is  cxir  fight  of  which 
he  fpeaks.  This  is  the  objecl  carried  through  the  fentence, 
and  prefented  to  us,  in  every  member  of  it,  by  thofe  verbS;  ;f//j-, 
converfeSy  continues,  to  each  of  which  it  is  clearly  the  nomina- 
tive. Thofe  capital  words  are  difpofed  of  in  the  moft  proper 
places ;  and  that  uniformity  is  maintained  in  the  condrudlion 
of  the  fentence,  which  fuits  the  unity  of  the  objc£l. 

Obferve, too,  the  muuc  of  the  period;  confiding  of  three 
members,  each  of  which,  agreeably  to  a  rule  I  formerly  men- 
tioned, grows,  and  rifes  above  the  other  In  found,  till  the  fen- 
tence is  conduced,  at  laft,  to  one  of  the  mod  melodious  clofes 
which  our  Language  admits  ;  'with  Ait  being  tired  or  fatiated  nvith 
its  proper  enjoyments.  Enjoymefits^  is  a  word  of  leirgth  and  dig- 
nity, exceedingly  proper  for  a  clofe  which  is  defigned  to  be  a 
mufical  one.  The  harmony  is  the  more  happy,  as  this  dlfpo- 
fition  of  the  members  of  the  period  which  fuits  the  found  fo 
well,  is  no  lefs  jud  and  proper  with  refpe£l  to  the  fenfe.  It  fol- 
lows the  order  of  nature.  Fird,  we  have  the  variety  of  objects 
mentioned,  which  fight  furniflies  to  the  mind  ;  next,  we  have 
the  adion  of  fight  on  thofe  objeds ;  and  ladly,  we  have  the 
time  and  continuance  of  its  a6lion.  No  oriler  could  be  more 
natural  or  happy. 

This 


Lect.  XX.      THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  411.  ^91 

This  fentence  has  ftill  another  beauty.  It  is  figurative,  with- 
out being  too  much  foforthefubject.  A  metaphor  runs  through 
it.  The  fenfe  of  fight  is,  in  fome  degree,  perfoniHed.  Wc  are 
told  of  its  co/ivetji/ig  with  its  oojcds  ;  and  of  its  not  being  iired 
or  fatiated  with  its  enjoyments ;  all  which  expreflions  are  plain 
allufions  to  the  ailions  and  feelings  of  men.  This  is  that 
flight  fort  of  perfonification,  which,  without  any  appearance 
of  boldnefs,  and  without  elevating  the  fancy  much  above  its 
ordinary  ftatc,  renders  difcourfe  pidturcfque,  and  leads  us  to 
conceive  the  author's  meaning  more  di(lin<!ftly,  by  clothing  ab« 
ftra£l  ideas,  in  fome  degree,  with  fenfible  colours.  Mr.  Addi- 
fon  abounds  with  this  beauty  of  Style  beyond  moll  authors; 
and  the  fentence  which  we  have  been  confidcring,  is  very  ex- 
preflive  of  his  manner  of  writing.  There  is  no  blemifli  in  it 
whatever,  unlefs  that  a  ftri£l  critic  might  perhaps  objeft,  that 
the  epithet  large^  which  he  applies  to  'variety — the  largejl  'uarl' 
ety  ofideasy  is  an  epithet  more  commonly  applied  to  extent  than 
to  number.  It  is  plain,  that  he  here  employed  it  to  avoid  the 
repetition  of  the  word  great ^  which  occurs  immediately  after- 
wtirds. 

"  The  fenfe  of  feeling  can,  indeed,  give  us  a  notion  of  ex- 
"  tenfion,  fliape,  and  all  other  ideas  that  enter  at  the  eye,  ex- 
"  ccpt  colours  ;  but,  at  the  fame  time,  it  is  very  much  ftrait- 
**  ened  and  confined,  in  its  operations,  to  the  number,  bulk^ 
"  and  diftance  of  its  particular  objects." 

This  fentence  is  by  no  means  fo  happy  as  the  former.  It  is, 
indeed,  neither  clear  nor  elegant.  Extenfion  and  Jhnpe  can, 
with  no  propriety,  be  called  ideas ;  they  are  properties  of  mat- 
ter. Neither  is  it  accurate,  even  according  to  Mr.  Locke's  phi- 
lofophy,  (with  which  our  Author  feems  here  to  have  puzzled 
himfelf )  to  fpeak  of  any  fenfe  giving  us  a  notion  of  ideas  ;  our 
fenfes  give  us  the  ideas  themfelvf  s.  The  meaning  would  have 
been  much  more  clear,  if  the  Author  had  exprefled  himfelf 
thus  :  "  The  fenfe  of  feeling  can,  indeed,  giveilis  the  idea  of 
*'  extenfion,  figure,  and  all  the  other  properties  of  matter  whicli 
"  arc  perceived  by  the  eye,  except  colodrs." 

The  latter  part  of  the  fentence  is  ftill  more  embarrafled. 
For  wliat  meaning  can  wc  make  of  fenfe  of  feeling,  being  ro«- 

fmed, 


2P2  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.XX. 

Jitiedy  in  its  cperaiiovs,  to  the  immher^  lutlh,  and  d'ljlance^  of  its  par" 
tici/lar  ohjcBs  F  Surely,  every  fenfe  is  confined,  as  much  as 
tlie  fenfe  of  feeling,  to  the  number,  bulk,  and  diftance  of  its 
own  objefts.  Sight  and  feeling  are,  in  this  refpccfl,  perfe(fVly 
on  a  level ;  neithi^r  of  them  can  extend  Ix^yond  their  own  ob- 
jects. The  turn  of  expreffion  is  fo  inaccurate  here,  that  one 
would  be  apr  to  fufpe(Sl  two  words  to  have  been  omitted  in  the 
printing,  which  were  originally  in  Mr.  Addifon's  manufcript ; 
becaufe  the  infertion  would  render  the  fenfe  much  more  intel- 
ligible and  clear.  Thefe  two  words  are,  wit/j  regard  : — it  is 
•very  muchjirnitetied,  and  cotifinedy  in  its  cperaticiiSy  ivith  regard  to 
the  tiumbery  btilhy  a7:d  dif.ance  of  its  particular  objects.  The 
meaning  then  would  be,  that  feeling  is  more  limited  than  fight 
in  this  refpecl ;  that  it  is  confined  to  a  narrower  circle,  to  a  frnall- 
er  number  of  objects. 

The  €jiit]\ct  particu/ary  applied  to  ohjeclsy  in  the  conclufion  of 
t\\z  fentcnce,  is  redundant,  and  conveys  no  meaning  whatever. 
Mr.  Addifon  feems  to  have  ufed  it  in  place  of  pecuUary  as  in- 
deed he  does  often  in  other  poiTages  of  his  writings.  But  par^ 
iiciilar  and  peculiar^  though  they  are  too  often  confounded,  are 
words  of  different  import  from  each  other.  Particular  flands 
oppofed  to  general ;  peculiar  flands  oppofed  to  what  is  poffefTed 
in  common  ninth  others,  Particular,  expreffes  what  in  the  logical 
Style  is  called  Species s  peculiar,  what  is  called  di^eretilia.  Its 
peculiar  objects  would  have  fignified  in  this  place,  the  objedls  of 
the  fenfe  of  feeling,  as  didinguifhed  from  the  obje£ls  of  any 
other  fenfe ;  and  would  have  had  more  meaning  than  its  par- 
ticular objects.  Though,  in  truth,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other 
epithet  was  requifite.  It  was  fufTicicnt  to  have  faid  fimply, 
its  ohjeEls, 

*'  Our  (jght  feems  defigned  to  fupply  all  thefe  defcfls,  and 
*'  may  be  confideved  as  a  jDore  delicate  and  dillufive  kind  of 
*•  touch,  that  fpreads  itfelf  over  an  infinite  multitude  of  bodies, 
**  comprehen^^  the  largefl  figures,  and  brings  into  our  reach 
**  feme  of  themoft  remote  parts  of  the  univcrfc." 

Here  again  the  author's  Style  returns  upon  us  in  all  its 
beauty.  This  is  a  fentence  diflin£t,  graceful,  well  arranged,  and 
highly  muflcal.  In  the  latter  part  of  it,  it  is  conflrucEled  with 
three  members,  which  are  formed  much  in  the  fame  manner 

with 


I.ECT.  XX.      THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  411.  293 

with  thofe  of  the  fecond  fentence,  on  which  I  beftowed  fo  much 
praife.  The  confl;ru6lion  is  fo  fimilar  that  if  it  had  followed 
immediately  after  it,  we  fliould  have  been  fenfiblc  of  a  faulty 
monotony.  But  the  interpofition  of  another  fentence  between 
tliem,  prevents  this  efFe£k. 

*'  It  is  this  fenfe  which  furniflies  the  imagination  with  its 
*'  ideas  ;  fo  that  by  the  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination  or  Fancy, 
*'  (which  I  fliall  ufe  promifcuoufly)  I  here  mean  fuch  as  arife 
**  from  vifible  objetls,  either  when  we  have  them  a6lually  in 
*'  our  view  ;  or  when  we  call  up  their  ideas  into  our  minds 
"by  paintings,  flatues,  defcriptions,  or  any  the  like  occafion." 

In  place  of,  //  is  this  fenfe  'which  furniJ}}eSi  the  author  might  have 
faid  more  fliortly,  This  fenfe  fiirnifies.  But  the  mode  of  expref- 
flon  which  he  lias  ufed,  is  here  more  proper.  This  fort  of  full 
and  ample  afiertion,  //  is  this  nvhichy  is  fit  to  be  ufed  when  a 
propofition  of  importance  is  laid  down,  to  which  we  feck  to  call 
the  reader's  attention.  It  is  like  pointing  with  the  hand  at  the 
object  of  which  we  fpeak.  The  parenthefis  in  the  middle  of 
the  fentence,  tuhich  I  Jhall  ufe  promifcuoufly^  is  not  clear.  He 
ought  to  have  faid,  terms  nvhich  I fball  ife  proinifcuonfly  j  as  the 
verb  ufe  relates  not  to  the  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  but  to 
the  terms  of  Fancy  and  Imagination,  which  he  was  to  employ 
as  fynonimous.  Any  the  like  occnftcn.  To  call  a  painting  or  a 
llatue  an  cccrjion  is  not  a  happy  exprcfhon,  nor  is  it  very  proper 
to  fpeak  of  calling  up  ideas  by  cccafions.  The  common  phrafe, 
any  fuch  means y  would  have  been  more  natural. 

"  We  cannot  indeed  have  a  fingle  image  in  the  fancy,  that 
**  did  not  make  its  firft  entrance  through  the  fight  j  but  we 
**  liave  the  power  of  retaining,  altering,  and  compounding 
*'  tliofe  images  which  we  have  once  received,  into  all  the  varie- 
'*  ties  of  pidlure  and  vifion  tliat  arc  mofh  agreeable  to  the  imag- 
"  ination  ;  for  by  this  faculty,  a  man  in  a  dungeon  is  capable  of 
**  entertaining  himfelf  with  fcenes  and  landfcaj^s  more  beauti- 
*'  ful  than  any  that  can  be  found  in  the  whole  compafs  of 
"  nature." 

It  may  be  of  ufe  to  remark,  that  in  one  member  of  this  fen- 
tence there  is  an  inaccuracy  in  fyntax.  It  is  A'ery  proper  to  fay, 
altering  nr.d  compounding  thofe  images  which  nvc  have  sncc  received f 

info 


294  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.XX. 

mtO'  all  the  varieties  cf  piElure  and  infion.  But  we  can  with  no 
propriety  lay,  retaining  them  into  all  the  varieties  ;  and  yet,  ac- 
cording to  the  manner  in  which  the  words  are  ranged,  this 
conftrudtion  is  unavoidable.  For  retaining,  altering,  and  csm- 
pQunding,  are  participles,  each  of  which  equally  refers  to,  and 
governs  the  fubfequent  noun,  thofe  images  ;  and  that  noua 
again  is  neceflarily  connected  with  the  following  prepofition, 
into*  This  inflance  fhows  the  importance  of  Carefully  attend- 
ing to  the  rules  of  grammar  and  fyntax  ;  when  fa  pure  a 
writer  as  Mr.  Addifon  could,  through  inadvertence,  be  guilty 
of  fuch  an  error.  The  conltruflion  might  eafily  have  been  rec- 
tified, by  disjoining  the  participle  retaining  from  the  other  two 
participles  in  this  way  :  *'  We  have  the  power  of  retaining  thofe 
"  images  which  we  have  once  received  ;  and  of  altering  and 
•*  compounding  them  into  all  the  varieties  of  pi£lure  and  vif- 
**  ion  ;"  or  better  perhaps  thus :  "  We  have  the  power  of  re- 
*'  taining,  altering,  and  compounding  thofe  images  which  we 
"  have  once  received  ;  and  of  forming  them  into  all  the  varieties 
*'  of  pidlure  and  vifion."  The  latter  part  of  the  fentence  i& 
elear  and  elegant. 

"  There  are  few  words  in  the  Englifh  Language  which  are 
**  employed  in  a  more  loofe  and  uncircumfcribed  fenfe  than. 
•*  thofe  of  the  Fancy  and  the  Imagination." 

There  are  Jew  nvords — which  are  employed.  It  had  been  bet- 
ter, if  our  author  here  had  faid  more  fimply,  Few  words  in 
the  Englijh  Language  are  employed.  Mr.  Addifon,  whofe  Style 
is  of  the  free  and  full,  rather  than  the  nervous  kind,  deals,  on 
all  occafions,  in  this  extended  fort  of  fthrafeology^.  But  it  is- 
proper  only  when  fome  alfertion  of  confcquence  is  advanced, 
and  which  can  bear  an  emphafis  ;  fucli  as  that  in  the  lirft  fen- 
tence of  the  former  paragraph.  On  other  occaCons,  thefe  little 
•words,  //  zx,  and  there  are^  ought  to  be  avoided  as  redundant  and 
enfeebling — thofe  of  the  Fancy  and  the  Imagination.  The  article 
ought  to  have^een  omitted  here.  As  he  does  not  mean  the 
powers  of  the  Fancy  and  the  Imagination^  but  the  words  only, 
the  article  certainly  had  no  proper  place  ;  neither,  indeed,  was 
there  any  occafion  for  the  other  two  words,  thofe  of.  Better, 
if  the  fentence  had  run  thus  :  "  Few  words  in  the  Englifb 

Language 


Lect.  XX..     THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  41 1,  29; 

"  Lanijuage  are  employed  in  a  more  loofe  and  uncircumfcribcd 
"  fenfe,  than  Fancy  and  Imagination." 

*'  I  therefore  thought  it  necciTary  to  fix  afid  determine  the 
*'  notion  of  thofe  two  worJs,  as  I  intend  to  make  ufe  of  them 
*'  in  the  thread  of  my  following  fpeculations,  that  the  read- 
''  er  may  conceive  rightly  what  is  the  fubje£l  which  I  proceed 
«  upon." 

Though  j^x  and  determine  may  appear  fynonymous  words, 
yet  a  difference  between  them  may  be  remarked,  and  they  may 
be  viewed,  as  applied  here,  with  peculiar  delicacy.  The  au- 
thor had  juft  faid,  that  the  words  of  which  he  is  fpeaking  were 
loofe  and  uncircumfcribed.  Fix  relates  to  the  firfh  of  thefe,  de' 
tennine  to  the  lalt.  "Wc  Jix  what  is  Uofe  ;  that  is,  we  confine 
the  word  to  its  proper  place,  that  it  may  not  fluctuate  in  our 
imagination,  and  pafs  from  one  idea  to  another ;  and  we  deter- 
mine what  is  uncirciwifcribed,  that  is,  we  afcertain  its  termini  or 
limits,  we  draw  the  circle  round  it,  that  we  may  fee  its  boun- 
daries. For  we  cannot  conceive  the  meaning  of  a  word,  or  in- 
deed of  any  other  thing  clearly,  till  we  fee  its  limits,  and  know 
how  far  it  extends.  Thefe  two  words,  therefore,  have  grace 
and  beauty  as  they  are  here  applied  ;  though  a  writer,  more 
frugal  of  words  than  Mr.  Addifon,  would  have  preferred  the 
Tingle  word  afcertain,  which  conveys,  v/ithout  any  metaphor, 
the  import  of  them  both. 

The  notion  of  thefe  words  is  fomewhat  of  a  harfh  phrafc,  at 
lead  notfo  commonly  ufed,  as  the  meaning  of  thefe  words'— ^as' I 
intend  to  make  ufe  of  them  in  the  thread  of  my  fpeculations  \  this  is 
plainly  faulty.  A  fort  of  metaphor  is  improperly  mixed  with 
words  in  the  literal  fenfe.  He  might  very  well  have  faid,  as  I 
intend  to  make  ufe  of  them  in  my  foUoiving  f peculations.  This  was 
plain  language  ;  but  if  he  chofe  to  borrow  an  allufion  from 
/Z);-f<7^,  that  allufion  ought  to  have  been  fupported  ;  for  there  is 
no  confiltency  in  making  ufe  of  them  in  the  thread  of  fpeculations  ; 
and,  indeed,  in  exprefiing  any  thing  io  fimple  and  familiar  as 
this  is,  plain  language  is  always  to  be  preferred  to  metaphorical 
— the  fuhjcct  which  1  proceed  upon,  is  an  ungraceful  clofe  of  a  fen- 
i^cnce  ;  better,  thefuhjecl  upon  which  I  proceed, 

«  I  mufl 


296  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.  XX. 

"  I  mud  tlaerefore  defire  him  to  remember,  that,  by  the  Pleaf- 
**  ures  of  the  Imagination,  I  mean  only  fuch  pleafures  as  arife 
*'  originally  from  fight,  and  that  I  divide  thefe  pleafures  into 
"two  kinds." 

As  the  laft  fentence  began  with,  I  therefore  thought  it  necejfary 
to  fix ^  it  is  carelefs  to  begin  this  fentence  in  a  manner  fo  very 
iimilar,  I miijl  therefore  dtfire  him  to  remember  \  efpecially,  as  the 
fmall  variation  of  ufing,  on  this  account^  or,  for  this  reafiiy  in 
place  of  therefore^  w^ould  have  amended  the  Style.  When  he 
fays,  /  mean  only  fuch  pleafures^  it  may  be  remarked,  that  the  ad- 
verb only  is  not  in  its  proper  place.  It  is  not  intended  here  to 
qualify  the  verb  meatiy  hwx.  fuch  pleafures  ;  and  therefore  fiiould 
have  been  placed  in  as  clofe  a  connexion  as  poffible  with  the 
word  which  it  limits  or  qualifies.  The  Style  becomes  more 
clear  and  neat,  when  the  words  are  arranged  thus ;  **  by  the 
*'  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  I  mean  fuch  pleafures  only  as 
"  arife  from  fight." 

"My  defign  being,  firfl  of  all,  to  difcourfe  of  thofe  primary 
*'  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  which  entirely  proceed  from  fuch 
"  objedls  as  are  before  our  eyes  ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  to 
*'fpeak  of  thofe  fecondary  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  which 
*'  flow  from  the  ideas  of  vifible  obje£ls,  when  the  objects  are 
"  not  actually  before  the  eye,  but  are  called  up  into  our  mem- 
**  ories  or  formed  into  agreeable  vifions  of  things,  that  are 
"  either  abfent  or  fidlitious." 

It  is  a  great  rule  in  laying  down  the  divifion  of  a  fubje£l:,  to 
fludy  neatnefs  and  brevity  as  much  as  poffible.  The  divifions 
are  then  more  diftin£lly  apprehended,  and  more  eafily  remem- 
bered. This  fentence  is  not  perfedlly  happy  in  that  refpedl:. 
It  is  fomewhat  clogged  by  a  tedious  phrafeology.  My  defign 
heingyfirjl  of  ally  to  difcourfe— —in  the  next  place  to  fpeak  of — fuch  oh' 
jeEls  as  are  before  our  eyes — things  that  are  either  abfent  cr fictitious. 
Several  words  might  have  been  fpared  here ;  and  the  Style 
made  more  neat  and  compadl. 

"  The  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  taken  in  their  full  extent, 
**are  not  fo  grofs  as  thofe  of  fenfe,  nor  fo  refined  as  thofe  of 
**  the  underftanding." 

This  fentence  is  diftincl  and  elegant. 

"The 


Lect.  XX.      THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  411.  297 

"  The  lafl  are  Iiuleed  more  preferable/i>ecaufe  they  are  fouad- 
*'  ed  on  fonije  new  knowledge  or  improvement  in  the  mind  of 
"  man  :  Yet  it  muft  be  confefled,  that  thofeof  the  Imagination 
*'  are  as  great  and  as  tranfporting  as  the  other." 

In  the  beginning  of  this  fentence,  the  phrafe,  more prcfcrahJe^ 
;s  fuch  a  plain  inaccuracy,  that  one  wonders  hew  Mr.  Addifon 
■fhould  have  fallen  into  it  \  feeing  prefer  able  of  itfelf  cxprefTes 
the  comparative  degree,  and  is  the  fame  with  more  eligible,  or 
more  excellent. 

I  mud  obferve  farther,  that  the  propofition  contained  in  the 
lafl  member  of  this  fentence,  is  neither  clear  nor  neatly  exprelP 
ed — //  viujl  he  conftjp'd,  that  tb:fe  of  the  Imagination  are  as  great f 
Mid  as  tranfporting  as  the  other.  In  the  former  fentence,  he  had 
compared  three  things  together  ;  the  Pleafures  of  the  Imagin- 
ation, thofe  of  fenfe,  and  thofe  of  the  undcrftanding.  In  the  be- 
ginning of  this  fentence,  he  had  called  the  pleafures  of  the  under- 
Itanding  the  laji  ;  and  he  ends  the  fentence,  with  obferving,  that 
thofe  of  the  Imagination  are  as  great  and  tranfporting  as  theother. 
Now,  befides  that  the  other  malces  not  a  proper  contrafl;  with  the 
laflf  he  leaves  it  ambiguous,  whether,  by  the  other^  he  meant 
the  pleafures  of  the  undcrftanding,  or  the  pleafures  of  fenfe  ;  for 
it  may  refer  tD  either,  by  the  conflru6lion  ;  though,  undoubt- 
edly, he  intended  that  it  fliould  refer  to  the  pleafures  of  the  un- 
dcrilanding  only.  The  propofition  reduced  to  perfpicuous  lan- 
guage, runs  thus :  "  Yet  it  mull  be  confeffed,  that  the  Pleaf- 
"  ures  of  the  Imagination,  when  compared  with  thofe  of  the 
"  underflanding,  are  no  lefs  great  and  tranfporting." 

*'  A  beautiful  profpedl  delights  the  foul  as  much  as  a  dem- 
"  onftration  ;  and  a  defcription  in  Homer  has  charmed  more 
*'  rcader.s  than  a  chapter  in  Arillotle." 

This  is  a  good  illuftration  of  what  he  had  been  afTerting,  and 
is  exprt'fled  with  that  happy  and  elegant  turn,  for  which  our 
author  is  very  remarkable. 

"  Befides,  the  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination  have  this  advan- 
"  tage  above  thofe  of  the  underflanding,  that  they  are  more  ob- 
"  vious,  and  more  eafy  to  be  acquired." 

This  alfo  is  an  unexceptionable  fentence. 

'*  It  is  but  Qpening  the.  eye,  and  the  fcene  enters." 

P  r  This 


298      -     CRITICAL  EXAMINE ATION  OF        Lect.  XX. 

This  fentence  is  lively  and  piclurefque.  By  the  gaiety  ami 
brilknefj  which  it  gives  the  Style,  it  lliows  the  adv.mtaj^je  of  in- 
termixing fuch  a  fliort  fentence  as  this  amidil  a  run  of  longer 
ones,  which  never  fails  to  have  a  happy  efFecl..  I  mufl  remark, 
however,  a  fmall  inaccuracy.  Ajle/w  cannot  be  faid  to  enter  i 
an  ac/of  enters  ;  but  a  (ccne  appecirSf  or  prefcnts  itjclf. 

"The  colours  paint  themfelves  on  the  fancy,  with  very  little 
"attention  of  thought  or  application  of  mind  in  the  beholder." 

This  13  ftill  beautiful  illullration ;  carried  on  with  that 
agreeable  flowerinefs  of  fancy  and  Style,  which  is  fo  well  fuit- 
ed  to  thofe  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  of  which  the  author  is 
treating. 

*'We  are  (Iruck,  wz  know  not  how,  with  the  fymmetry  of 
"  any  thing  we  fee,  and  immediately  aflent  to  the  beauty  of  an 
"obje£l,  without  inquiring  into  the  particular  caufcs  and  oc- 
"  caiions  of  it." 

There  is  a  falling  off  here  from  the  elegance  of  the  former 
feritences.  We  ajfcnt  to  the  truth  of  a  propofition  ;  but  cannot 
fo  well  be  faid  to  a[pnt  to  the  beauty  of  an  object.  Acknoivledge 
would  have  exprcfled  the  fcnfe  with  more  propriety.  The 
clofe  of  the  fentence  too  is  heavy  and  ungraceful — the  particu- 
lar caiifes  and  occafions  of  it ;  both  particular^  T^wdi.  occafionsy  are 
words  quite  fuperfluous  ;  and  the  pronoun  /V,  is  in  fome  meaf- 
ure  ambiguous,  whether  it  refers  to  beauty  or  to  objeifl.  It 
would  have  been  fome  amendment  to  the  Style  to  have  run  thus: 
"  We  immediately  acknowledge  the  beauty  of  an  obje£l,  with- 
**  out  inquiring  into  the  caufe  of  that  beauty." 

,  *'  A  man  of  a  polite  Imagination  is  let  into  a  great  many 
*' pleafures,  that  the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of  receiving." 

■  Polite  IB  a  term  more  commonly  applied  to  manners  or  beha- 
viour, than  to  the  mind  or  Imagination.  There  is  nothing  far- 
ther to  beobferved  on  this  fentence,  unlefs  the  ufc  of  that  for  a 
relative  pronoun,  inftead  of  ivhich  ;  an  ufage  which  is  too  fre- 
quent with  Mr.  Addifon.  Which  is  a  much  more  definite  word 
than  thatj  being  never  employed  in  any  other  way  than  as  a  rela- 
tive; whereas /-6(7^  is  a  wonl  of  many  feiifes ;  fometimes  a  de- 
monllrative  pronoun,  often  a  conjumStion.  In  fome  cafes  we 
are  indeed  obliged  to  ufc  that  for  a  relative,   in  order  to  avoid 

the 


k 


Lect.  XX.      THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  4rr.  299 

the  ungraceful  repetition  of  ivh'tch  in  the  fame  fentence.  But 
when  we  arc  laid  under  no  nccefTity  of  this  kind,  nvhich  is  al- 
ways the  preferable  word,  and  certainly  was  foin  this  fentence. 
Tleofures  ivhich  the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of  receivings  is  much 
better  than  plenfiires  that  the  vulgar ^  ^c. 

*'  He  can  convcrfe  with  a  picture,  and  find  an  agreeable  com- 
*'panion  in  a  ftalue.  He  meets  with  a  fecret  vefrefliment  in  a 
*'  defcription  ;  and  often  feels  a  greater  fatisfattion  in  the  prof- 
**  pe£l  of  fields  and  meadows,  than  another  does  in  the  pollef- 
"  fion.  It  gives  him,  indeed,  a  kind  of  property  in  every  thing 
*'  he  fees ;  and  makes  the  moft  rude  uncultivated  parts  of  na- 
**  ture  adminifter  to  his  pleafures  :  fo  that  he  looks  upon  the 
"  world,  as  it  were,  in  another  light,  and  difcovers  in  it  a  multi- 
"  tude  of  charms  that  conceal  theniftives  from  the  generality  of 
"  mankind." 

■  All  this  is  very  beautiful;  The  illuftration  is  happy ;  and 
the  Style  runs  with  the  grcateft  eafe  and  harmony.  We  fee  no 
labour,  noftiffnefs,  or  affe6lation  ;  but  an  author  writing  from 
the  native  flow  of  a  gay  and  pleafing  Imagination.  This  pre- 
dominant charaifler  of  Mr.  Addifon's  manner,  far  more  than 
compenfates  all  thofe  little  negligence^ which  wc  are  now  re- 
marking. Tu'o  of  thefe  occur  in  this  paragraph.  The  firft,  in 
tlie  fentence,  which  begins  with,  //  gives  kirn  indeed  a  hind  of 
property  :  To  this  /'/,  there  is  no  proper  antecedent  in  the  whol? 
paragraph.  In  order  to  gather  the  m.eaning,  we  muft  look 
back  as  far  as  to  the  third  fentence  before,  the  firft  of  the  para- 
graph, which  begins  with,  A  man  of  a  polite  Imaginnilon.  This 
phrafc,  polite  Imagination,  is  the  only  antecedent  to  which  this  it 
can  refer  ;  and  even  that  is  an  improper  antecedent,  as  it  {lands 
in  the  genitive  cafe,  as  the  qualification  only  of  a  man. . 

The  other  inftance  of  negligence,  is  towards  the  end  of  ihc 
paragrapli,  So  that  he  looks  upon  the  ivcrld,  a  ittuere,  in  a  not  her  light. 
By  another  light,  jMr.  Addifon  means,  a  light  different  from  that 
in  which  other  men  view  the  world.  But  though  this  cxpreflioil 
clearly  conveyed  this  meaning  to  himfelf  when  writing,  it  conveys 
it  very  indidindly  to  others;  and  is  an  inftance  of  that  fort  of  in- 
accuracy, into  which,  in  the  warmth  of  compofition,  every  writ- 
er of  a  lively  Imagination  is  apt  to  fall ;  and  which  can  only 
be  remedied  by  a  cool,  fubfequcnt  review.  As  it  u-erCf  is  up- 
on 


30O  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.XX. 

on  mofl  occafions  no  more  than  an  ungraceful  palliative  ;  and 
here  there  was  not  the  leafl  occafion  for  it,  as  he  was  not  about 
to  fay  any  thing  which  required  a  foftening  of  this  kind.  To  fay 
the  truth,  this  lafl  fentence,yi'  that  he  loohs  upon  the  luorldy  and 
what  fellows,  had  better  been  wanting  altogether.  It  is  no 
r-Tore  than  an  unnecefTary  recapitulation  of  what  had  gone  be- 
fore •,  a  feeble  adje61ion  to  the  lively  piclure  he  had  given  of 
the  Pleafures  of  tiie  Lp.agination.  The  paragraph  would  havQ 
endrd  with  more  fpirit  at  the  words  immediately  preceding  j 
the  itncuitivated  parts  of  nature  adminijler  to  his  plenfures. 

"  There  are,  indeed,  but  very  few  who  know  how  to  be  idle 
**  and  innocent,  or  have  a  relith  of  any  pleafures  that  are  not 
*'  criminal ;  every  diverfion  they  take,  is  at  the  expenfe  of  fomc 
*'  one  virtue  or  another,  and  their  very  firft  ilep  out  of  bufinefs 
**  is  into  vice  or  folly." 

Nothing  can  oe  more  elegant,  or  more  finely  turned,  than 
this  fentence.  It  is  neat,  clear,  and  mufical.  We  could  hardf 
]y  alter  one  word,  or  difarri?i?ge  one  member,  without  fpoiling 
it.  Yew  fentenccs.  arc  to  be  found  more  finiilied,  or  more 
happy. 

*'  A  man  fhould  endeavour,  therefore,  to  make  the  iphere 
**  of  his  innocent  pleafures  as  \vide  as  pofiibie,  that  he  may 
**  retire  into  them  with  fafety,  and  find  in  them  fuel;  a  faiis- 
*'  faOion  as  a  wife  man  would  not  blufli  to  take." 

This  alfo  is  a.  good  fentence,  and  gives  occafion  to  no  ma-, 
terial  remark. 

*'  Of  this  nature  are  thofe  of  the  Imagination,  which  do  not; 
'*  require  fuch  a  bent  of  thc^ught  as  is  necefl'ary  to  our  more 
"  fcricus  employments,  nor,  at  the  fame  time,  fuflcr  the  mind 
*'  ;o  fink  ijito  that  indolence  and  remiffnefs,  which  ave  apt  to 
*'  accompany  our  more  fenfual  delights  ;  but,  like  a  gentle  ex-s 
"  ercife  to  the  faculties,  awaken  them  from  ftoth  and  idlenefs, 
"  without  putting  upon  them  any  labour  or  uilhculty.'' 

The  beginning  of  this  fentence  is  not  correft,  and  affords  Tin 
inftance  of  a  period  too  loofely  conne<fted  with  the  preceding 
one.  Of  this  nature,  fays  he,  are  thofe  of  the  hnrginatiotu  Wo 
might  afk  of  what  nature  .-*  For  it  |iad  not  been  tlie  feope  oi 
the  preceding  fentence  to  dcfcribc  the  na.turc  of  any  fet  of  plcaf-^ 

urcs. 


Lect.XX.       the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  411.  301 

uves.  >  He  had  faid,  that  it  was  every  man's  duty  to  make  the 
fphere  of  his  innocent  pleafures  as  wide  as  polFible,  in  order 
that,  within  that  fphere,  he  might  find  a  fafe  retreat,  and  a 
laudable  fatisfadion.  The  tranfition  is  loofcly  made,  by  be- 
v^inning  the  next  fentence  with  faying,  Of  th'ts  initurc  are  ibofe 
of  the  Imagination.  It  had  been  better,  if,  keeping  in  view  the 
governing  objetl  of  the  pi-eceding  fentence,  he  had  faid,  "  This 
*'  advantage  we  gain,"  or,  "  This  fatisfadlion  we  enjoy,  by 
**  means  of  the  Pleafures  of  Imagination."  The  reft  of  the 
fentence  is  abundantly  corre£l. 

«  We  might  here  add,  that  the  pleafures  of  the  fancy  a-rc 
"  more  conducive  to  health  than  thofe  of  the  underfland- 
"  ing,  which  are  worked  out  bv  dint  of  thinkingj  and  attend-- 
*'  ed  with  too  violent  a  labour  of  the  brain." 

On  this  fentence,  nothing  occurs  deferving  of  remark,  ei- 
eept  that  nuorked  out  by  dint  of  thinkings  is  a  phrafe  which  bor- 
ders too  much  on  vulgar  and  colloquial  language,  to  be  proper 
for  being  employed  in  a  poliflied  compoGtion. 

**  Delightful  fcenes,  whether  in  nature,  painting,  or  poetry, 
"  liave  a  kindly  influence  on  the  body,  ns  well  as  the  mind, 
"  and  not  only  ferve  to  clear  and  brighten  the  imagination, 
*'  but  are  able  to  difperfe  grief  and  melancholy,  and  to  fet 
**  the  animal  fpirits  in  pleafjng  and  agreeable  motions.  For 
*'  this  reafon,  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  in  his  Efiay  upon  Health,  has 
"  not  thought  it  improper  to  prefcribe  to  his  reader  a  poem,  or 
'*  a  profpc£t,  where  he  particularly  difTuades  him  from  knotty 
"  and  fubtile  difquifitions,  and  advifes  him  to  purfue  ftudics 
"  that  fill  the  mind  with  fplendid  and  illuftrious  objc£ls,  as 
**  liiftories,  fybles,  and  contemplations  of  nature." 

In  tlic  latter  of  thefe  two  fentcnces,  a  member  of  the  period 
is  altogether  out  of  its  place  ;  which  gives  the  whole  fentence 
.-^  harfli  and  disjointed  caft,  and  ferves  to  illuftrate  the  rules  I 
ff)rmerly  gave  concerning  arrangement.  The  wrong-placed 
member  which  I  }>oint  at,  is  thisj  ivhcre  he  particularly  chffuaclcs 
hitu  from  knotty  ard  fuhtilc  difqti'fitions  ;  thcfc  M'ords  (liould, 
imdoubtedlv,  have  been  placed  not  where  they  ftand,  but  thus  : 
iSzr  Francis  Bacon  ^  in  hii  I'ffay  upon  Hituth^  ivherc  he  particularly 
dijuadcs  the  reader  from  knotty   and  fuhiilc  fpeculations,  has  mi 

thought 


302  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION,  5cc.      Lect.XX. 

thought  it  -.mproper  to  prefcribc  to  him,   ^c.     This  arrangement 
reduces  every  thing  into  its  proper  order. 

**  I  have,  in  this  paper,  by  way  of  introduQion,  fettled  the 
**  notion  of  thofe  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  which  are  the 
**  fubje£l  of  my  prefent  undertaking,  and  endeavoured,  by  fev- 
"  eral  confiderations,  to  recommend  to  my  readers  the  purfuit 
**  of  thefe  pleafures  :  I  fliall,  in  my  next  paper,  examine  tlie  fev- 
*'  eral  fources  from  whence  thefe  pleafures  are  derived." 

Thcfe  two  concluding  fentences  afford  examples  of  the  prop- 
er collocation  of  circumllances  in  a  period.  I  formerly  (how- 
ed,  that  it  is  often  a  matter  of  difficulty  to  difpofc  af  them  in 
fuch  a  manner,  as  that  they  fliall  not  embarrafs  the  principal 
fubjccl  of  the  fentence.  In  the  fentences  before  us,  fevcral  of 
thefe  incidental  circumllances  necefiarily  come  in — By  lunv  of' 
iniroduHion — by  feveral  cotifickratio7Js——in  ibis  paper — in  the 
next,  paper.  •*  All  which  are,  with  great  propriety,  managed  by 
our  author.  It  will  be  found,  upon  trial,  that  there  were  no 
other  parts  of  the  fentence,  in  which  they  could  have 'been 
placed  to  equal  advantage.  Had  he  faid,  for  inftance,  "  I  have 
*'  fettled  the  notion,  (rather,  the  tneanit?g)  of  thofe  Pleaf- 
*'  ures  of  the  Imagination,  which  are  the  fubje£l  of  my  preC^ 
*'  ent  undertaking,  by  way  of  introdu£lion,  in  this  paper, 
*'  and  endeavoured  to  recommend  the  purfuit  of  thofe  pleaf- 
*'  ures  to  my  readers,  by  feveral  confiderations,"  we  mull  be 
fenfible,  that  the  fentence,  thus  clogged  with  circumftances  in 
the  wrong  place,  would  neither  have  been  fo  neat  nor  fo  clear ^ 
as  it  is  by  the  prefent  conftrutlion. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE         XXL 


CRITICAL    EXAMINATION    OF    THE    STYLE    IN 
No.  412  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

JL  HE  obfevvations  which  have  occurred  In  reviewing 
that  paper  of  Mr.  Addlfon's,  which  was  the  fubjecl  of  the  laft 
Le6ture,  fufficiently  (how,  that  in  the  writings  of  an  author, 
of  the  moll  happy  genius,  and  diftinguiflied  talents,  inaccuracies 
may  fometimes  be  found.  Though  fuch  inaccuracies  may  be 
overbalanced  by  fo  many  beauties,  as  render  Style  highly  pleaf- 
ing  and  agreeable  upon  the  whole,  yet  It  mufh  be  defirable  to 
every  writer  to  avoid,  as  far  as  he  can,  inaccuracy  of  any  kind. 
As  the  fubject  therefore  is  of  importance,  I  have  thought  it 
might  be  ufeful  to  carry  on  this  criticifni  throughout  two  or 
three  fubfequent  papers  of  the  Spedlator.  At  the  fame  time, 
I  mufl:  intimate,  that  the  Lettures  on  thefe  papers  are  folely 
intended  for  fuch  as  are  applying  themfelves  to  the  fludy  of 
Engllfli  Style.  I  pretend  not  to  give  inftruclion  to  thofe  who 
are  already  well  acquainted  with  the  powers  of  language.  To 
them  my  remarks  may  prove  unedifying  ;  to  fome  they  may 
feem  tedious  and  minute  :  but  to  fuch  as  have  not  yet  made 
all  the  proficiency  which  they  defire  in  elegance  of  Style, 
ftricl  attention  to  the  compofition  and  (Iruclure  of  fentenccs 
cannot  fail  to  prove  of  confidcrable  benefit :  and  though  my 
remarks  on  Mr.'Addifon  ftiould,  in  any  inllance,  be  thought  ill* 
founded,  they  will,  at  leaft,  ferve  the  purpofe  of  leading  them 
into  the   train  of  making   proper  remarks  for  themfelves.*     I 

proceed, 

*  If  tlicrc  be  readers  who  think  any  fartlier  apolo^qy  rcqnifite  for  my  ad- 
veiUurin"  to  criticil'c  the  fciUcnces  of  lo  eminent  an  author  as  Mr.  Addifon, 
1  mu!l  take  notice,  that  I  was  naturally  ltd  10  it  hy  the  tircmnflances  of  that 
part  of  the  kiiigJom  whtre  thcle  LciTtiirCj  were  read  ;  where  the  ordinary 
i'pokeu  language  often  ditVcts  uiucli  from  what  is  ufed  hy  good  Englifli  au- 
thon.     Hence  it  occurred  to  me,  at  a  proper  method  of  correcting  any  pc« 

culiaritics 


304  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.  XXL 

proceed,  therefore,  to  tlie  examination  of  the  fubfequcnt  paper, 
No.  412. 

**  I  (hall  firfl  confider  thofe  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination, 
**  which  avife  from  the  atlual   view   ami   fuvvcy  of  outward 
•'  objects  :  and  thefe,  I  think,  all  proceed  from  the  fight  of  what . 
"  is  great,  uncommon,  or  beautiful." 

This  fentence  gives  occafion  for  rfo  material  remark.  It  is 
fimple  and  didindt.  The  two  words  which  lie  here  ules,  vieiu 
and  furvexy  arc  not  altogether  fynonimous:  as  the  former  may 
be  fuppofed  to  import  mere  infpcdion;  the  latter  more  dcHb- 
erate  examination.  Yet  they  lie  fo  near  to  one  another  in 
meaning,  that,  in  the  prefent  cafe,  any  one  of  tiiem,  perhaps, 
•would  have  been  fuflicicnt.  The  epithet  actual^  is  introduced, 
in  order  to  mark  more  lirongly  the  diiUnQioji  between  wliat 
our  author  calls  the  primary  Pleafures  of  Imagination,  which 
arife  from  immecUate  view,  and  the  fecondary,  which  arife 
from  remembrance  or  defcription. 

*'  There  may,  indeed,  be  fomething  fo  terrible  or  ofFenfive, 
"  that  the  horror,  or  loathfomenefs  of  an  objecl,  may  overbear 
**  the  pleafure  which  refults  from  Its  novelty,  greatnefs,  or 
*'  beauty ;  but  ftUl  there  will  be  fuch  a  mixtui-e  of  delight  in  the 
**  very  dlfguft  it  gives  us,  as  any  of  thefe  three  qualifications 
*'  are  mofl;  confpicuous  and  prevailing." 

This  fentence  mull  be  acknowledged  to  be  an  unfortu- 
nate one.  The  fenfe  Is  obfcure  and  embarrafibd,  and  the  ex- 
prcfFion  loofc  and  Irregular.  The  beginning  of  it  Is  perplex- 
ed by  the  wrong  pofitiou  of  the  words  fomething  and  ohjeEi. 
The  natural  arrangement  would  have  been,  There  tnay^  ifidted, 
he  fomething  in  nn  ohjcEl  fo  terrible  or  offenjtve^  that  the  horror  or 
loathfomenefs  of  it  may  overbear.  Thefe  two  epithets,  horror  or 
loathfomenefs,  arc  awkwardly  joined  together.  Loathfomenef  is, 
indeed,  a  quality  which  may  be  afcribed  to  an  objecl ;  but  Z-sr- 
ror  is  not  i  it  is  a  feeling  excited  In  the  mind.     The  Language 

would 

culiaritiet  of  (lialciSt,  to  direct  (Indents  of  eloquence,  to  analize  and  examine, 
with  p.irticular  attention,  the  ftrudture  of  Mr.  Addifon's  I'cntcnccs.  Thofe 
papers  <if  the  Spci'^ator,  wliich  are  the  fuhjeifl  of  the  following  Ledhires,  were 
accordingly  given  out  ill  cxcrcife  10  ftndeuts,  to  be  thus  examined  and  anali?.- 
cd  ;  and  leveral  of  the  obfervaticms  which  follow,  both  on  the  beauties  and 
btcmUlics  of  this  Author,  were  fug?cfted,  by  the  obfcrvations  given  to  mc  ia 
cunfeq^iicnce  of  the  cxcrcife  prcfcribed. 


Lect.XXI.     the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  412.  30; 

would  have  been  much  more  correft,  had  our  Author  faid. 
There  i?jay^  indeed^  be  fomething  in  an  objeEl  fo  terrible  or  offenftve^ 
that  the  horror  or  difguji  'which  it  excites  may  overbear.  The  firft 
two  epithets,  terrible  or  offcnftve^  would  then  have  exprefletl 
the  qualities  of  an  objetSl ;  the  latter,  horror  or  difguji^  the  cor- 
refponding  fentiments  which  thefe  qualties  produce  in  us. 
Loathfomenefs  was  tlie  moft  unhappy  word  he  could  have  chof- 
en  :  for  to  be  loathfouie,  is  to  be  odious,  and  feems  totally  to 
exclude  any  mixture  of  delight^  which  he  afterwards  fuppofes 
Biay  be  found  in  the  object. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  fentence  there  are  feveral  inaccura- 
cies. When  he  fays,  there  nuillbe  fuch  a  mixture  of  deligbt  in  the 
iKry  difguji  it  gives  usy  as  any  of  thfe  three  qualifications  are  tnoji 
confpicuous.  The  conftruclion  js  defective,  and  feems  hardly 
grammatical.  He  meant  affuredly  to  fay,  fuch  a  mixture  cf  de^ 
light  as  is  proportioned  to  the  degree  in  ivhich  any  of  thefe  three  qual- 
ifications are  mcfi  confpicuous.  We  know,  that  there  may  be  a 
mixture  of  pleafant  and  of  difagreeable  feelings  excited  by  the 
f.imc  obje£l  j  yet  it  appears  inaccurate  to  fay,  that  there  is  any 
deli'i^ht  in  the  very  difgiifi.  The  plural  verb,  are^  is  improperly 
joined  to  any  of  thefe  three  qualifications ;  for  as  any  is  here  ufcd 
diftributively,  and  means  any  one  of  thefe  three  qualifications ^  the 
correfponding  verb  ought  to  have  been  fnigular.  The  order  in 
which  the  two  lail  words  arc  placed,  fhould  have  been  reverf- 
cd,  and  made  to  Hand,  prevailing  and  cojifpicuous.  They  are 
confpicuous,  becaufc  \.\\ft-^  prevail. 

"  By  greatnefs,  I  do  not  only  mean  the  bulk  of  any  fingle 
*'  objedl,  but  the  largenels  of  a  whole  view,  confidered  as  one 
*'  entire  piece." 

In  a  former  LeQure,  when  treating  of  the  Stru£lure  of  Sen- 
tences, I  quoted  this  fentence  as  an  inftance  of  the  carelefs 
manner  in  which  adverbs  are  fometimes  interjedled  in  the 
midfl  of  a  period.  Only^  as  it  is  here  placed,  appears  to  be  a 
limitation  of  the  following  verb,  mean.  Tlie  queftion  might 
be  put,  What  more  does  he  than  only  mean?  as  the  author, 
undoubtedly,  intended  it  to  refer  to  the  bulk  of  a  fingle  object,  it 
would  have  been  placed,  with  more  proprirty  after  thefe  words : 
/  do  not  mean  the  bulk  of  ans fingle  object  only,  but  the  largenefs  of  a 
ivhclc  view.  As  the  following  phrafe,  confidered  as  one  entire 
0^0^  ^iec£, 


3o6  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF     Lect.  XXI. 

piece,  fecms  to  be  fomcwhat  deficient,  both  in  dignity  and  pro- 
priety, perhaps  this  arljeclion  might  have  been  aftogcther  omit- 
ted, and  the  fentcnce  have  doled  with  fully  as  much  advantage 
at  the  word  vleiv. 

**  Such  are  the  profpsifts  of  an  open  champaign  country,  a 
"  vaft  uncultivated  defert,  of  huge  heaps  of  mountains,  high 
**  rocks  and  precipices^  or  a  wide  expanfe  of  waters,  where  we 
"  are  not  (Iruck  with  the  novelty,  or  beauty  of  the  fight,  but 
*'  with  that  rude  kind  of  magnificence  which  appears  in  many 
**  of  thefe  ftupendous  works  of  nature." 

Tills  fentence,  in  the  main,  is  beautiful.  The  obje£ls  pre- 
fented  are  all  of  them  noble,  felc£\cd  with  judgment,  arranged 
with  propriety,  and  accompanied  with  proper  epithets.  We 
muft.,  however,  obferve,  that  tlie  fentence  is  too  loofely,  and 
not  very  grammatically,  conne£led  with  the  preceding  one.  He 
lays,  fiich  are  the  profpecls  -,  fuch^  fignifies,  of  that  nature  or 
quality ;  which  necelT-irily  prefuppofes  fome  adje£live,  or  word, 
defcriptive  of  a  quality  going  belore,  to  which  it  refers.  But, 
in  the  foregoing  fentence,  there  is  no  fuch  adje£live.  He  had 
fpoken  of  greatnef\  in  the  abilrail  only ;  and,  therefore,  fuch 
has  no  diftindl  antecedent  to  which  we  can  refer  it.  The  fen- 
tence would  have  been  introduced  with  more  grammatical  pro- 
priety, by  faying,  'To  this  clnfs  bc/ing,  or,  under  this  head  are  rang' 
ed  the  profpecls,  t3'c.  The  of,  which  Is  prefixed  to  huge  heaps 
of  mountains,  is  mifplaced,  and  has,  perhaps,  been  an  error  in 
the  printing  ;  as,  either  all  the  particulars  here  enumerated 
fliould  liave  Iiad  this  mark  of  the  genitive,  or  it  filiould  have 
been  prefixed  to  none  but  the  firft.  When,  in  the  clofe  of  the 
fentence,  the  Author  fpeaks  of  that  rude  magnificence,  ivhich  ap- 
pears in  tnany  of  thefe  fliipenchus  worhs  of  nature,  he  had  better 
have  omitted  the  word  many,  which  feems  to  except  fome  of 
them.  Whereas,  in  his  general  propofition,  he  undoubtedly 
meant  to  include  all  the  ftupendous  works  he  had  eiuimerated ; 
and  there  is  no  queftion  that,  in  all  of  them,  a  rude  magnificence 
appears. 

*'  Our  Imagination  loves  to  be  filled  with  an  object,  or  to 
**  grafp  at  any  thing  that  is  too  big  for  its  capacity.  We  are 
"  flung  into  a  pleafing  aflonifliment  at  fuch  unbounded  views  ; 
*'  and  feel  a  delightful  flillnefs  and  amazement  in  the  foul,  at 
**  tiie  apprehcnfion  of  them."  The 


Lect.  XXI.     THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  412.         307 

The  language  here  is  elegant,  and  feveral  of  the  cxprcf- 
fions  remarkably  happy.  There  is  nothing  which  requires  any 
animadverfion  except  the  clofe,  at  the  apprehenjion  of  them.  Not 
only  is  this  a  languid  enfeebling  concluHon  of  a  fcntence,  other- 
wife  beautiful,  but  the  apprehenjion  cf  vl(ivs,\s^  phrafe  deftitutc 
of  all  propriety,  and,  indeed,  fcarcely  intelligible.  Had  this 
adjc£lion  been  entirely  omitted,  and  the  fentcnce  been  allowed 
to  i:\oic  y^'iih  JJilltiefs  and  av:azement  in  the  fsul^  it  would  have 
been  a  great  improvement-  Nothing  is  frequently  more  hurt- 
ful to  the  grace  or  vivacity  of  a  period,  than  fuperfluous  drag- 
ging words  at  the  conclufion. 

"  The  mind  of  man  naturally  hates  every  tiling  that  looks 
*'  like  a  reflraint  upon  it,  and  is  apt  to  fancy  itfclf  under  a  fort 
"  of  confinement,  when  the  fight  is  pent  up  in  a  narrow  com- 
*'  pafs,  and  fliortened  on  every  fide  by  the  neighbourhood  of 
**  walls  or  mountains.  On  the  contrary,  a  fpacious  horizon 
*'  is  an  image  of  liberty,  where  the  gye  has  room  to  ringe 
*'  abroad,  to  expatiate  at  large  on  the  immenfity  of  its  views, 
*'  and  to  lofe  itfelf  amidft:  the  variety  of  obje£ls  that  offer  them- 
*'  felves  to  its  obfervation.  Such  wide  and  undetermined  prof- 
"  peds  are  as  pleafing  to  the  fancy,  as  the  fpe(?ulations  of  etes* 
**  nity,  or  infinitude,  are  to  the  uviderftiuiding.'* 

Our  Author's  Style  appears,  here,  in  all  that  native  beauty 
"vv'hlch  cannot  be  too  much  praifcd.  The  numbers  fiow  fmooth- 
ly,  and  with  a  graceful  h.umony.  The  words  which  he  has 
chofcn,  carry  a  certain  amplitude  and  fulnefs,  well  fuited  to 
the  nature  of  the  fubje£t ;  and  the  members  of  the  periods 
rife  in  a  gradation  accomn^odated  to  the  rifcj  of  the  thought. 
The  eye  firft  ranges  abroad  ;  then  expatiates  at  large  on  the  inttnen- 
flycf  its  views  ;  and,  at  laft,  lojes  itfelf  amidji  the  variety  of  chjeEls 
that  offer  themfelves  to  its  obfervation.  The  fancy  is  elegantly  con- 
trafled  with  the  underflandingy  profpeRs  with  fpeculationsy  and 
ivide  and  undetermined  profpcclsy  with  fpeciilati:ns  f  eternity  and 
iifinitude. 

'*  But  if  there  be  a  beauty  or  uncommonnefs  joined  with  this 
"  grandeur,  as  in  a  troubled  ocean,  a  heaven  adorned  with  fhars 
"  and  meteors,  or  a  fpacious  landfcapc  cut  out  into  rivers, 
"  woods,  rocks  and  meadows,  the  pleafure  (lill  grows  upon  us^ 
*'  as  it  aiifcs  from  more  than  a  finglc  principle." 

The 


3c8  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF     Lect.XXL 

The  article  prefixed  to  beauty^  in  the  beginning  of  this  fen- 
tenre,  might  h:)ve  been  omitted,  and  the  Style  have  run,  per- 
haps, to  more  advantage  thus  :  But  if  beauty^  or  uncomimnnefsy 
be  joined  fo  this  v;rntidcui — A  latii'fcape  cut  out  into  rivers,  ivoodsf 
8cc.  Items  unfeafonably  to  imply  an  artificial  formation,  and 
had  better  have  been  exprefled  by,  diverjiped  ivith  riversy 
woods y  ike. 

*'  Every  thing  that  is  new  or  uncommon,  raifes  a  pleafure  iti 
*'  the  imagination,  bec^iufe  it  fills  the  foul  with  an  agreeable 
**  furprife,  gratifies  its  ourioHry,  and  gives  it  an  idea  of  which 
"  it  was  not  before  poilefieti.  We  are,  indeed,  fo  often  con- 
**  verfant  with  one  fct  of  ob)e<"ls,  and  tired  out  with  fo  many 
*'  repeated  fhows  of  the  fame  things,  that  whatever  is  new  or 
**  uncommon  contributes  a  little  to  vary  human  life,  and  to  dl- 
**  vert  our  minds,  for  a  while,  with  the  ftrangenefs  of  its  ap- 
"  pearance.  Ii  ferves  us  for  a  kind  of  refrefhment,  and  takes. 
*'  ofr  f'-cir  that  fatiety  we  are  apt  to  complain  of  in  our  ufual 
*'  and  ordinary  entertainments." 

The  Style  in  thefe  fentences  flows  In  an  eafy  and  agreeable 
manner.  A  fevere  critic  might  point  out  fonie  expreflions  that 
would  bear  being  retrenched.  But  this  would  alter  the  genius 
and  charatter  of  Mr.  Addifon's  Style. .  We  mull  always  re- 
member, that  good  compofition  admits  of  being  carried  on  un- 
der many  different  forms.  Style  mufl  not  be  reduced  to  one 
prccife  flandard.  One  M^riter  may  be  as  agreeable,  by  a  pleafing 
diffufenefs,  when  the  fubjedl  bears,  and  his  genius  prompts  it, 
as  another  by  a  concife  and  forcible  manner.  It  is  fit,  however, 
to  obferve,  that  in  the  beginning  of  thofe  fentences  wliich  we 
have  at  prefent  before  us,  the  phrafc,  rcifes  n  pleafure  in  the 
imagination.^  is  unqueftionably  too  flat  and  feeble,  and  might 
eafily  be  amended,  by  faying,  affords  pleafure  to  the  imagination  ; 
and  towards  the  endj  there  are  two  ofsy  which  grate  harfldy 
on  the  ear,  in  that  phrafe,  takes  off  from  that  fn  iety  tve  are  apt 
io  complain  of ;  where  the  correction  is  as  eafily  made  as  in  the 
other  cafe,  by  fubftituting,  diminiffjes  that  fatiet'j  of  ivhich  ive  are 
xipt  to  comp>lain.  Such  inflances  fiiow  the  advantage  of  frequent 
reviews  of  what  we  have  written,  in  order  to  give  proper  cor- 
redlnefs  and  polifft  to  our  language. 

«  It 


Lect.XXI.     the  style  IN  SPECT.  No,  412.  309 

*'  It  is  this  -which  befiows  charms  on  a  monflev,  and  makes 
•*  even  the  impcrfccSlions  of  nature  pleaie  us.  It  is  this  that 
'*  recommends  variety  where  the  mind  is  every  inflant  called 
"  off  to  fomething  new,  and  the  attention  not  fuffered  to  dwell 
"  too  long,  and  wafte  itfcif,  on  any  particular  objccl:.  It  is 
*'  this  likewife,  that  improves  what  is  gi^^at  or  beautiful,  and 
"  makes  it  afford  the  mind  a  double  entertainment." 

Still  the  Style  proceeds  with  perfpicuity,  grace  and  harmony. 
The  full  and  ample  afiertion,  with  which  each  of  thefe  fen« 
tences  is  introduced,  frequent  on  many  occafions,  with  our  Au- 
thor, is  here  proper  and  feafonable  ;  as  it  was  his  intention  to 
magnify,  as  m.uch  as  poffible,  the  effecls  of  novelty  and  variety, 
and  to  draw  our  attention  to  them.  His  frequent  ufe  of  that, 
inflead  of  ivhich,  is  another  peculiarity  of  his  Style  ;  but,  on 
this  occafion  in  particular,  cannot  be  much  commended,  as  if 
is  ibis  ixihichy  feems,  in  every  view,  to  be  better  than,  it  is  this 
ihai,  three  times  repeated.  I  mull,  likewife,  take  notice,  that 
the  antecedent  to,  it  is  this,  when  critically  confidered,  is  not 
altogether  proper.  It  refers,  as  we  difcover  by  the  fenfe,  to 
ivhaie'ucr  is  neiv  cr  uvcomvioti.  But  as  it  is  not  good  language 
to  fay,  ivhatevev  is  new  bejloivs  charms  on  a  tnonjier,  one  cannot 
avoid  thinking  that  our  Author  had  done  better  to  have  begun 
the  firft  of  thefe  three  fentcnces,  with  faying,  It  is  novelty  tuhich 
Itjjoivs  charms  on  a  monjler,  Sec. 

"  Groves,  fields,  and  Dieadows,  are  at  any  feafon  of  the  year 
"  pleafant  to  lock  upon  ;  but  never  fo  much  as  in  the  opening 
"  of  the  fpring,  when  they  are  all  new  and  frcfn,  with  their 
"  firfl:  glofs  upon  them,  and  not  yet  too  much  accufloiTicd  and 
**  familiar  to  the  eye." 

In  this  cxpreffion,  ntverfo  much  as  In  the  opening  of  the  fprinf:;, 
tliere  appears  to  be  a  fmall  error  in  grammar;  for  when  the 
conftruiSiion  is  filled  up,  it  mufl:  be  read,  never  fo  much  pleafant. 
Had  he,  to  avoid  tliis,  faid,  never  fo  tnnch  fo,  the  grammatical 
error  would  have  been  prevented,  but  the  language  would  have 
been  awkward.  Better  to  have  faid,  hut  never  fo  agreeable  as  in 
the  opening  f  the  fpring.  We  readily  fay,  tlie  eye  is  accuftom- 
ed  to  objcfts,  but  to  fay,  as  our  author  has  done  at  the  clofe  of 
the  fentence,  that  objeds  are  accuf.omed  to  the  eye,  can  fcarcely 
be  allowed  in  a  profe  compofition. 

"For 


310  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.XXT. 

"  For  this  reafon,  there  is  nothing  tl^at  more  enlivens  a  prof- 
"  peel  than  rivers,  jctteaus,  or  falls  of  w;if.er,  where  the  fcene 
**  is  perpetually  fhifting  and  entertaining  the  fight,  every  mo- 
*'  ment,  vAith  fomething  th^it  is  new.  We  are  quickly  tired 
"  with  looking  at  hills  and  vallics,  where  every  thing  continues 
"  fixed  and  fettled  in  the  fame  place  and  pofture,  but  fiad  our 
"  thoughts  a  little  agitated  and  relieved  at  the  fight  of  fuch  ob- 
**  jecls  as  are  ever  in  motion,  and  Aiding  away  from  beneath 
"  the  eye  of  the  beholder.'* 

The  (nd  of  thefe  fcntences  is  connected  in  too  loofe  a  man^ 
ner  with  that  which  immediately  preceded  it.  When  he  fays, 
Fcr  this  rcnfca,  there  is  uothitig  that  more  enlivensy  ^c.  we  ar'^ 
entitled  to  look  for  the  renfin  in  what  he  had  jufl  before  faid. 
But  there  we  find  iio  rcnfon  for  what  he  is.  now  going  to  afiert» 
except  that  groves  and  meadows  are  moll  pleafant  in  the  fpring. 
We  know  that  he  has  been  fpeaking  of  the  pleafure  produced 
by  novelty  and  variety,  and  our  minds  naturally  recur  to  this, 
as  the  reafon  here  alluded  to-,  but  his  language  does  not  prop- 
eily  exprefs  ir.  It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  defeats  of  this  amiable 
writer,  that  his  fentences  are  oftea  too  negligently  conne6led 
with  one  another.  His  meaning,  upon  the  whole,  we  gather 
\Tith  eafe  from  the  tenour  of  his  difcourfe.  Yet  this  negligence 
prevents  his  fenfe  from  flriking  us  with  that  force  and  evidertce, 
which  a  more  accurate  jun6lure  of  parts  would  liave  produced. 
Bating  this  inaccuracy,  thefe  two  fentences,  efpecially  the  lat- 
ter, are  remarkably  elegant  and  beautiful.  The  clofe,  in  par-r 
ticular,  Is  uncommonly  fine,  and  carries  as  much,  expreffivs 
harmony  as  the  language  can  admit.  It  feem.s  to  paint,  what 
lie  is  dtfcribing,  at  once  to  the  eye  and  the  ear.  ^nch  chjecfs  as 
are  ever  'ni  motkn,  andjliding  aivax  from  beneath  the  eye  of  the  be- 
holder. Indeed,  notwithllanding  thofe  fmall  errors,  which  the 
ftri^lnefs  of  critical  examination  obliges  me  to  point  out,  it  may 
be  fafely  pronounced,  that  the  two  paragraphs  which  we  have 
now  confidered  in  this  paper,  the  one  concerning  greatnefs,  and 
the  other  concerning  novelty,  are  extremely  worthy  of  Mr.  Ad- 
difon^  and  exhibit  a  Style,  which  they  who  can  fuccefsfully  im- 
itate, may  efteem  themfelves  happy. 

"  But  there  is  nothing  that  makes  its  way  more  directly  to 
"  the  foul  than  beauty,  which  immediately  difFufes  a  fecret  fat- 

*'  isfadlion 


Lect.  XSf.     THE  STYLK  IN  SPECT.  No.  412.  312 

*'  isf.iclion  and  complacency  through  the  imagination,  and  gives 
**  a  fniifiiing  to  any  thing  tliat  is  great  or  uncommon.  The 
"  very  firft  difcovery  of  it  ftrikes  the  mind  with  an  inward 
*''  joy,  and  fpreads  a  cheerfuhiefs  and  deUght  through  all  its 
*'  faculties." 

Some  degree  ofver'jofity  maybe  here  difcovercd,  and  phrafes 
repeated,  wliicli  are  little  more  than  the  echo  of  one  another ; 
fach  as,  •diffufing  fat'tsfaBion  and  complacency  through  the  iniagin- 
ation—^JlriViHg  the  viind  ivith  'tiiiuard  jo^ — -f^reading  ckeerfulncfs 
and  ddtght  through  all  its  faculties.  At  the  fame  tune,  I  readily 
admit  that  this  full  and  flowing  Style,  even  though  it  carry 
fome  redundancy,  is  not  unfuitable  to  the  gaiety  of  the  fubjec^ 
on  which  the  Author  is  entering,  and  is  more  allowable  here 
than  it  would  have  been  on  fome  other  occafions. 

"  There  is  not,  perhaps,  any  real  beauty  or  deformity  more 
**  in  one  piece  of  matter  than  another  •,  bccaufc  wc  might 
"  have  been  fo  made,  that  whatever  now  appears  loathfome 
"  to  us,  might  have  flicwn  itfelf  agreeable  ;  but  we  ,[ind,  by 
**  experience,  that  there  are  feveriU  modifications  of  matter, 
**  which  the  mind,  v/ithout  any  previous  confideraticn,  pro- 
"  nounccs  at  firit  fight  beautiful  or  deformed," 

In  this  fentence  there  is  nothing  remarkable,  in  any  view,  to 
draw  our  attention.  We  may  obfcrve  only,  that  the  word  more^ 
towards  the  beginning,  is  not  in  its  proper  place,  and  that  the 
prepofition  /;/,  is  wanting  before  another.  The  phrafe  ought  to 
have  flood  thus  :  BiU^uty  or  difonnity  in  om-  piece  of  matter ^  raore 
than  in  another. 

'.  *'  Thus  we  fee,  that  every  different  fpccies  of  fcnfiblc  crca- 
^  tures  has  its  different  notions  of  beauty,  and  that  each  of 
**  them  is  moft  afFetlied  with  the  beauties  of  its  own  kind,  l^his 
"  is  no  wliere  more  remark:ible,  than  in  birds  of  the  fame 
"  fhape  and  proportion,  when  we  often  fee  the  male  determined 
**  in  his  courtfliip  by  the  fingle  grain  or  tin£turc  of  a  featlier, 
**  and  never  difcovering  any  charmS  but  in  the  colour  of  its 
"  fpecies." 

Neither  is  there  here  any  particular  elegance  or  felicity  of 
language.  Different  fcnfe  of  beauty  would  have  been  a  more 
proper  cxprcflion  to  have  been  applied  to  irrational  crea- 
tures, than  as  it  ftands,  dffjrent  notions  of  be.:uty.     In  the  clofe 

of 


312  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.  XXI. 

of  the  fecond  fentence,  wlien  the  Author  fays,  colour  of  its  f pedes  ^ 
he  is  giiilty  of  a  coniiderable  inaccuracy  in  changing  the  gen- 
der, as  he  had  faid  in  the  fame  fentence,  that  the  male  was  de- 
fsrmined  in  his  ccurtjhip. 

"  There  is  a  fecond  kind  of  beauty,  that  we  find  in  the  fev- 
"  eral  products  of  art  and  nature,  which  does  not  work  in  the 
*'  imagination  with  that  warmth  and  violence,  as  the  beauty  that 
*'  appears  in  our  proper  fpecies,  bat  is  apt,  however,  to  raife  in 
*'  us  a  fecret  delight,  and  a  kind  of  fondnefs  for  the  places  or 
*'  objedls  in  which  we  difcover  it." 

Still,  I  am  forry  to  fay,  we  fi]id  little  to  praife.  As  in  his 
enunciation  of  tlie  fubje£t,  when  beginning  the  former  para- 
graph, he  appeared  to  have  been  treating  of  beauty  in  general, 
in  diilin£lion  from  greatnofs  or  novelty  ;  t\\\s  fecond k'nid  of  hcin- 
iy  of  v.'hich  he  here  fpeaks,  comes  upon  us  in  a  fort  of  fur- 
prife,  and  it  is  only  by  degrees  we  learn,  that  formerly  he 
had  no  more  in  view  than  the  beauty  which  the  different  fpe- 
cies of  fenfible  creatures  find  in  one  another,  Tins  fecond  kind 
cf  beauty y  he  fays,  ivefi/id  Inthefeveral producls  of  art  and  nature. 
He  undoubtedly  means,  not  in  all,  but  in  feveral  of  the  produBs  of 
nrt  and  nature  I  and  ought  fo  to  have  exprelTcd  himfelf;  and  in 
the  place  oiprodu5isy\.o  have  ufed  alfo  the  more  proper  word,  j5ri>- 
duBicns.  When  he  adds,  that  this  kind  of  beauty  does  not  work 
in  the  imagination  'with  that  warmth  and  violence  as  the  bcau'y 
that  apbears  in  our  proper  fpecies  ;  the  language  W'ould  certainly 
have  been  more  pure  and  elegant,  if  he  had  faid,  that  it  does 
not  work  upon  the  imagination  ivith  fich  ivarmth  and  violencCy  as 
t::.-'  beauty  that  appears  in  cur  own  fpecies. 

"  Thisconfifts  either  in  the  gaiety,  or  variety  of  colours,  in 
*'  the  fymmetry  and  proportion  of  parts,  in  the  arrangement 
**  and  difpofition  of  bodies,  or  in  a  jufl:  nnxture  and  concur- 
*'  rence  of  all  together.  Among  thefe  feveral  kinds  of  beauty, 
"  the  eye  takes  moft  delight  in  colours." 

To  the  language  here,  I  fee  no  objeflion  that  can  be  made. 

"  We  no  where  meet  with  a  more  glorious  or  more  pleafing 
'■•'  fiiOw  in  nature,  than  what  appears  in  the  heavens  at  the  rifing 
''  and  fetting  of  the  fun,  which  is  wholly  made  up  of  thofe  dif- 
*'  ferent  ftains  of  light,  that  fliow  themfelves  iu  clouds  of  a  dif- 
*'  fcrent  fituation." 

The 


s     / 


Lect.XXI.     the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  412.  313 

The  chief  ground  of"  criticilVa  on  this  fcnfcnce,  is  the  dif- 
jointed  Gtuatipn  of  the  relative  ivhkb.  Grammatically,  it  refers 
to  the  rifirig  and  Jetting  of  the  fun.  But  the  Author  meant,  that 
it  Ihould  refer  to  the  Jfjjw  which  appears  in  the  heavens  at 
that  time,  it  is  too  common  among  authors,  when  they  are 
writing  without  much  care,  to  make  fuch  particles  as  ihisy  and 
nvhichy  refer  not  to  any  particular  antecedent  word,  but  to  the 
tenour  of  fome  phrafe,  or  perhaps  the  fcope  of  fome  whole 
fentence,  which  has  gone  before.  This  pratSbice  faves  them 
trouble  in  marfi^alling  their  words,  and  arranging  a  period  : 
but,  though  it  may  Ie.rve  their  meaning  intelligible,  yet  it  ren- 
ders that  meaning  much  lefs  perfj.:>icuous,  determined,  and  pre- 
cife,  than  it  might  otherwifc  have  been.  The  error  I  have 
pointed  out,  might  have  been  avoided  by  a  fmall  alteration  in 
the  couflru61:ion  of  the  fentence,  after  fome  fuch  manner  as 
this  :  We  no  where  meet  ivhh  a  more  glorious  and  plenfmg  Jho%o 
in  nature,  than  ivhnt  is  formed  in  the  herfoens  at  the  i'fing  andfet- 
tingof  the  fun,  by  the  different  fiains  of  light  ivhich  Pjow  themfelvss 
in  clouds  of  different  fituations.  Our  Author  writes,  in  clouds  of 
a  dfferent  filuation,  by  which  he  means,  clouds  that  difter  in 
fituation  from  each  other.  But,  as  this  is  neither  the  obvious 
nor  grammatical  meaning  of  his  words,  it  was  neceffiiry  to 
change  the  expreffion,  aol  have  done,  into  the  plural  number. 

"  For  this  reafon,  we  find  the  poets,  who  are  always  addreff- 
**  ing  themfelves  to  the  inngination,  borrowing  more  of  their 
""  epithets  from  colours  than  from  any  other  topic." 

On  this  fentence  nothing  occurs,  except  a  remark  fimilar  to 
what  was  made  before,  of  loofe  connexion  with  the  fentence 
which  precedes.  For,  though  he  begins  with  faying,  For  this 
reafon,  the  forei^oing  fentence,  which  was  employed  about  the 
chuds  and  the  fun,  gives  no  reafon  for  the  general  propofition 
he  now  lays  down.  The  reafon  to  which  he  refers,  was  given 
two  fentences  before,  when  he  obfervcd,  that  the  eye  takes 
more  delight  in  colours  than  in  any  other  beauty ;  and  it  was 
with  that  fentence  that  the  prefeut  one  Ihould  have  ftood  un- 
mediately  conneiSled. 

As  the  fancy  delights  in  every  thing  that  is  great,  ftrange, 
"  or  beautiful,  and  is  ftill  more   oleafed,   the  more  it  finds  of 
i^,  R  '  «  thefe 


314  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION,  &c.     Lect.  XXt. 

"  thefe  perfections   in  the  fame  obje<5t,   fo  it  is  capable  of  re- 
**  ceiving  a  new  fatisfaQion  by  the  afliftance  of  another  fenfe." 

Another  fenfe  here,  means  grammatically,  another  fenfe  than 
fancy.  For  there  is  no  other  thing  in  the  period  to  which  this 
expreflion,  another fcnfe^  can  at  all  be  oppofed.  He  liad  not  for 
fome  time  made  mention  of  zny  feife  whatever.  He  forgot  to 
add,  what  was  undoubtedly  in  his  thoughts,  another  fenfe  than 
that  of  fight. 

*'  Thus  any  continued  found,  as  the  mufic  of  birds,  or  a  fall 
*'  of  water,  awakens  every  moment  the  mind  of  the  beholder, 
**  and  makes  him  more  attentive  to  the  feveral  beauties  of  the 
*'  place  which  lie  before  him.  Thus,  if  there  arifes  a  fragran- 
"  cy  of  fmells  or  perfumes,  they  heighten  the  pleafures  of  the 
*'  imagination,  and  make  even  the  colours  and  verdure  of  the 
**  landfcape  appear  more  agreeable ;  for  the  ideas  of  both  fenfes 
*'  recommend  each  other,  and  are  pleafanter  together,  than 
*'  when  they  enter  the  mind  feparately ;  as  the  different  col- 
**  ours  of  a  pi£lure,  when  they  are  well  difpofed,  fet  off  one 
**  another,  and  receive  an  additional  beauty  from  the  advantage 
*'  of  their  fituation." 

Whether  Mr.  Addifon's  theory  here  be  juft  or  not,  may  be 
queftioned.  A  continued  found,  fuch  as  that  of  a  fall  of  water, 
is  fo  far  from  awakenings  every  moment ^  the  mind  of  the  beholder^ 
that  nothing  is  more  likely  to  lull  hini  afleep.  It  may,  indeed, 
pleafe  the  imagination,  and  heighten  the  beauties  of  the  fcene  \ 
but  it  produces  this  efFe£l,  by  a  foothing,  not  by  an  awakening 
influence.  With  regard  to  the  Style,  nothing  appears  excep- 
tionable. The  floWi  both  of  language  and  of  ideas,  is  very 
agreeable.  The  author  continues,  to  the  end,  the  fame  pleaf- 
ing  train  of  thought,  which  had  run  through  the  reft  of  the 
paper  ;  and  leaves  us  agreeably  employed  in  comparing  togetli* 
er  different  degrees  of  beauty. 


./ 


LECTURE 


LECTURE         XXIL 


CRITICAL    EXAMINATION    OF    THE    STYLE    IN 
No.  413  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

Jl  HOUGH  in  yefterday's  paper  we  ccnfidered 
**  how  every  thing  that  is  great,  new,  or  beautiful,  is  apt  to  af- 
**  £e£t  the  imagination-  with  pleafure,  we  muft  own,  that  it  is 
"  impoflible  for  us  to  aflign  the  neceflary  caufe  of  this  plcaf- 
**  ure,  becaufe  we  know  neither  the  nature  of  an  idea,  nor  the 
"  fubilance  of  a  human  foul,  which  might  help  us  to  difcover 
*'  tlie  conformity  or  dii'agreeablenefs  of  the  one  to  the  other  ; 
*'  and,  therefore,  for  want  of  fuch  a  liglit,  all  that  we  can  do 
*'  in  fpeculations  of  this  kind,  is,  to  reflect  on  thofe  operations 
**  of  the  foul  that  are  moil  agreeable,  and  to  range,  under  their 
'*  proper  heads,  what  is  pleafing  or  difpleafing  to  the  mind, 
*'  without  being  able  to  trace  out  the  feveral  necefTary  and  ef- 
**  ficient  caufcs  from  whence  the  pleafure  or  difpleafure  arifcs.'* 

This  fentence,  confidered  as  an  introdu6lory  one,  mufl:  be 
acknowledged  to  be  very  faulty.  An  introductory  fentence 
{hould  never  contain  any  thing  that  can  in  any  degree  fatigue, 
or  puzzle  the  reader,  When  an  Author  is  entering  on  a  new 
branch  of  his  fubje£l,  informing  us  of  what  he  has  done,  and. 
what  he  propofes  further  to  do,  we  naturally  expe6l,  that  he 
fliould  exprcfs  himfelf  in  the.  fimpled  and  mofl;  perfpicuous 
manner  poffible.  But  tl:e  fentence  now  before  us  is  crowded 
and  indiilin£l  ;  containing  three  fcparatc  propofitions,  which, 
36  I  fliall  afterwards  iliow,  required  feparate  fentences  to  have 
unfolded  them.  Mr.  Addifon's  chief  excellency,  as  a  writer, 
lay  in  dffcribing  and  painting.  There  he  is  great;  but  in 
ijieihodifing  and  rcafoning,  he  is  not  fo  eminent.  As,  befides 
the  general  fault  of  prolixity  and  indiftin£lnefs,  this  faitence, 
<;pntains  feveral  inaccuracies,  I  fhall  be  obliged  to  enter  into  a 

minute 


2i6  CRITICAL  EX AMINTATION  OF    Lect-XXII. 

minute  dlfcuflion  of  its  ft;ru£lure  and  p^rts ;  a  difcuflion,  which 
to  many  readers  wiil  appear  tedious,  and  which  therefore  they 
will  naturally  pafs  over  ;  but  which,  to  thofe  who  are  fludying^ 
compofition,  I  hope  may  prove  of  fome  benefit. 

Though  in  yefterdi^s  tiaper  ive  conftdsrecl.  The  import  of  though,, 
is,  notnuithjlandlng  that.  When  it  appears  in  the  beginning  of 
a  fentence,  its  relative  generally  is  jrf  .-  and  it  is  employed  to 
warn  us,  after  we  have  been  informed  of  fome  truth,  that  -we 
are  not  to  infer  from  it  fome  other  thing  whieh  we  might  perhaps 
have  expecfled  to  follow  :  as,  "  Though  virtue  be  the  only  road 
"  to  happinefs,  yet  it  does  not  permit  the  unlimited  gratification. 
"  of  our  dcfires."  Now  it  is  plain,  that  there  was  no  fuch  op- 
pofition  between  the  fubjecl  of  yederday's  paper,  and-  what  the 
Author  is  now  going  to  fay,  between  his  aflerting  a  fadV,  and 
his  not  being  able  to  afiign  the  caufe  of  that  fa6\:,  as  rendered  the 
ufe  of  this  adverfative  particle,  though,  either  aeceffary  or  proper 
in  the  introdudlion.  We  confidercd  how  every  thing  that  is  great^ 
new,  cr  heaut'iftil,  is  apt  to  effect  the  imagijiat'ipn  tvi/h  p/eajiire. 
The  adverb  how  fignifies,  either  the  means  by  which,  or  the 
manner  in  which,  fomething  is  done.  But  in  truth,  neither 
one  nor  other  of  theft-  had  been  confidcred  by  our  Author.  He 
had  iiluftrated  the  fa61:  alone,  that  they  do  afFe(9:  the  imagination 
with  pleafure  ;  zud,  with  refpe£l  to  the  quomodo  or  tht  ho^v,  he 
is  fo  far  from  having  confidered  it,  that  he  is  juft  now  going  to 
{liow  that  it  cannot  be  explained,  and.tliat  we  mufl  refl  content- 
ed with  tlie  knowledge  of  tiie  fact  alone,  and  of  its  purpofe  or 
final  caufe.  We  niuft  own,  that  it  is  iwpoffiblc  for  us  to  rjpgn 
tJi£  neceffary  caufe  (he  means,  what  is  more  commonly  called 
the  efficiatit  caufe )  of  this  pleafure,  becaufe  lue  hnow  neither  the  na- 
ture of  an  idea,  nor  the  fuhf  once  of  a  human  foul.  Ihe  fi:h (lance  of 
a  human  foul  is  certainly  n  very  urcoutl;  expreffion,  and  tlicre 
appears  no  reafon  why  he  (hould  have  varied  from  the  word 
nature,  which  would  have  equally  applied  to  idea  and  to  fuL 

Which  might  help  j-is,  our  A  utlior  proceeds,  to  df rover  the  con- 
formity or  difcigrccablenefs  of  the  one  to  the  other.  The  which,  jit 
the  beginning  of  this  member  of  the  period,  is  furely  ungram- 
matical,  as  it  is  a  relative,  without  any  antecedent  in  all  the  fen- 
tence. It  refers,  by  the  conftruction,  to  the  nature  of  an  idca,cr 
the  fuhfance  cf  a  human  foul ;  but  this  is  by  no  means  the  ref- 
erence 


Lect.  XXII.    the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  413.  317 

crencc  which  the  Author  intended.  His  meaning  is,  that  cut- 
knoivinz  the  nature  of  an  idea,  and  the  fubflance  of  a  human 
foul,  might  help  us  to  difcover  the  conformity  or  difagreeable- 
r.cfs  of  the  o^e  to  the  other  :  and  therefore  the  fyntax  abfolute- 
]y  required  tlie  word  knoiuledge  to  have  been  inferted  as  the  an- 
tecedent to  ivhAch.  I  have  before  remarked,  and  the  remark  de- 
fcrves  to  be  repeated,  that  nothing  is  a  more  certain  fjgn  of 
carelefs  compofition  than  to  make  fuch  relatives  as  nvhich,  not 
refer  to  any  precife  expreflion,  but  carry  a  loofo  and  vague  re- 
lation to  the  general  drain  of  what  had  gone  before.  When 
our  fentences  run  into  this  form,  wc  may  be  afl'ured  there  is 
fomething  in  the  conftrutlion  of  them  that  requires  alteration. 
The  phrafe  of  difcovering  the  conformity  or  difagreeahlenefs  of  the 
'  o?}e  to  the  other  is  likcwile  exceptionable  •■,  for  difcgreeahlencfs  nei- 
tlier  forms  a  proper  contrafi;  to  the  other  word,  cofifnnity,  nor 
expi-efles  what  the  Author  meant  here,  (as  far  as  any  meaning 
can  be  gathered  from  his  words)  that  is,  a  certain  nnfuitable- 
nefs  or  want  of  conformity  to  the  nature  of  the  foul.  To  fay 
the  truth,  this  member  of  the  fentence  had  much  better  have 
been  omitted  altogether,  "The  conformity  or  dfagreeahJenefs  of  nn 
idea  to  the  fuhf}a?ice  of  a  human  foul ,  is  a  phrafe  which  conveys 
to  the  mind  no  diflin£l  nor  intelligent  conception  whatever. 
The  Author  had  before  given  a  fufficient  reafon  for  his  not  af- 
figning  die  efficient  caufe  of  thofe  plcafures  of  the  imagi)»r.;'ion, 
becnufe  we  neither  know  the  nature  of  our  own  ideas  nor  of 
the  foul :  :ind  this  farther  difcufilon  abcut  the  conformity  or 
difagrceablenefs  of  the  nature  of  the  one,  to  the  fubftance  of 
the  other,  affords  no  cic^r  nor  ufrful  illuftration. 

ylvd  therefore,  \.h(-  ftntcnce  goes  on,/ir  ivatit  of  fuch  a  light ,  all 
that  ive  cat',  do  in  f  eculations  of  this  hind,  is,  to  rfeEi  on  thofe  ope- 
ir.tior.s  of  the  foul  that  are  mofl  agreeable,  and  to  range  under  their 
proper  heads  ivhat  is  plcafng  or  difphafrng  to  the  mind.  The  two 
exprefiicns  in  the  beginning  of  tliis  member,  therefore,  and  for 
-Mart  of  fuch  a  light,  evidently  refer  to  the  fame  thing,  and  are 
quite  fyncnimous.  One  or  other  of  them,  therefore,  had  bet- 
ter have  been  omitted.  Inflead  of  to  range  under  their  proper 
heads,  the  language  would  have  been  fmoother,  ii their  had  been 
left  out.  Without  being  able  to  trace  out  the  fevcral  neccffary  and 
efficient  caufes  from  whence  the  pleafure  or  difplenfure  arifcs.     The 

cxpreihon. 


3iS  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF    Uct.XXIL 

exprefTi on, _/}-;:?«  ivhence^  though  feeminglyjuflified  by  very  fre- 
quent ufage,  is  taxed  by  Dr.  Johnfon  as  a  vicious  mode  of  fpcech ; 
ieeing  luhe'ife  alone,  has  all  the  power  oi from  luharcey  which 
therefore  appears  an  unneceflary  reduplication.  1  am  inclined 
to  think,  that  the  whole  of  this  lail  member  of  the  fentence 
had  bitter  have  been  dropped.  The  period  might  have  ciofed 
with  full  propriety,  at  the  words,  plcafing  cr  difpleaftng  to  the 
nund.  All  that  follows,  fuggefts  no  idea  that  had  not  been 
fully  conveyed  in  th€  preceding  part  of  the  fentence.  It  is  a 
mere  expletive  adjcflion  which  might  be  omitted,  not  only" 
without  injury  to  the  meaning,  but  to  the  great  relief  of  a  fen- 
tence already  labouring  under  the  mulritude  of  words. 

Having  now  fliiilhed  the  analyusof  this  long  fentence,  I  am; 
tnelined  to  be  of  opinion,  that  if,  on  any  occafion,  we  can  a<d-. 
venture  to  alter  IMr.  Addlfon's  Style,  it  may  be  done  to  advan- 
tage herc^  by  breaking  down  this  period,  in  the  foUov/ing  man-^ 
ner  :  "  In  yellerday's  paper,  we  have  Ihown  that  every  thing;- 
'*  which  is  great,  new,  ©r  beautiful,  is  apt  to  affetl  the  imagiua- 
**  tionvvlthpleafure.  We  mud  own,  that  it  is  impoflible  for  us  to 
**  affign  the  efficient  eaufe  of  this  pleafure,  becaufe  we  know 
*'  not  the  nature  either  of  an  idea,  or  of  the  human  foul.  All 
*'  that  we  can  do,  therefore,  in  fpeculations  of  this  kind,  is  to, 
**  reflect  on  the  operations  of  the  foul,  which  are  raoft  agreea- 
*'  ble,  -^iid  to  range  under  proper  heads,  what  is  plcafing  or  dif- 
*'  pkafmg  to  tisC  mind,"  We  proceed  now  to  the  examina- 
tion of  the  following  fcntences. 

"  Final  caufes  lie  more  bare  and  open  to  our  obfervation,  a<; 
**  there  arc  often  a  great  variety  that  belonp;  to  tlie  flime  efFe£l ;. 
'^  and  theie,  though  they  are  not  altogether  io  fatisfactory,  are. 
"  generally  more  ufeful  than  the  other,  as  they  give  us  greater 
*'  occafion  of  admiring  the  goodnefs  and  wifjom  of  the  fivft; 
"  Contriver." 

Though  fome  difference  might  be  traced  between  the  fenfe 
ci  bare  and  cpefi^  yet,  as  they  are  here  employed,  they  are  {o 
nearly  fynonimous,  that  one  of  them  was  fufficient.  It  would 
have  been  enough  to-  have  faid,  Fhial  caufes  lie  more  open  to  ob- 
fervniion.  One  can  fcarcely  help  obferving  here,  that  the  ob- 
vioufnefs  of  final  caufes  does  not  proceed,  as  Mr.  Addiion  fup- 
pofesj  from  a  variety  of  them  concurring  in  the  fame  effect, 

which 


Lect.XXII.    the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  413.         ^x^ 

^vliich  is  often  not  the  cafe ;  but  from  our  being  able  to  afcer- 
tain  more  clearly,  from  our  own  experience,  the  congruity  of 
a  final  caufe  with  the  circumftances  of  our  cor.dition  ;  whereas 
the  conftituent  partsoffiibjed:s,  whence  efficient  caufes  proceed, 
lie  for  the  mofl  part  beyond  the  reach  of  our  faculties.  But  as 
this  remark  refpecls  the  thought  more  tlian  the  Style,  it  is  fuf- 
ficient  for  us  to  obferve,  that  when  he  fays,  a  great  varJeity  ihat 
belong  to  the  fame  ffnEly  the  cxpreffion,  ftrit^ily  conflderedy  is  not: 
altogether  proper.  The  acceilbry  is  properly  faid  to  belong  to 
the  principal ;  not  the  principal  to  the  acceflbry.  Now  an  ef- 
fe£l  is  confidered  as  the  acceflbry  or  confequence  of  its  caufe  ; 
snd  therefore,  though  we  might  well  fay  a  variety  of  effecSts 
belong  to  the  fame  caufe,  it  feems  not  {o  proper  to  fay,  that  ^ 
variety  of  caufes  belong  to  the  fame  effect. 

"  One  of  the  final  caufes  of  our  delight  in  any  thijjg  that  i^ 
"  great,  may  be  this  :  The  Supreme  Author  of  our  being  ha*; 
"  f9k. formed  the  foul  of  man,  that  nothing  but  himfeJf  can  be 
*'  its  laft,  adequate,  and  proper  happinefs.  Becaufe,  therefore, 
"  a  great  part  of  our  happinefs  muft  arife  from  the  contem- 
**  plation  of  his  being,  that  he  might  give  our  fouls  a  juft  relirn 
**  of  fuch  a  contemplation,  he  has  made  them  naturally  delight 
*''  in  the  apprehenfion  of  what  is  great  or  unlimiteel." 

The  concurrence  of  two  conj  unctions,  hccanfe^  thcrcfo''ift 
forms  rather  a  harfli  and  unplcallng  beginning  of  tlie  lait  o£ 
tliefe  fentences  ;  and,  in  the  clofe,  one  would  think,  that  the 
Author  might  have  devifcd  a  happier  word  tlian  apprekerifio3i, 
to  be  applied  to  what  is  wdhnittd.  But  that  I  may  not  be 
thought  hypercritical,  I  Hiall  make  no  farther  obfcrv.vtions  on 
thefe  fentences. 

*'  Our  admiration,  which  is  a  very  plcafiiig  emotion  of  tlio 
*'  mind,  immediately  rifes  at  the  confidcration  of  any  objeti 
*'  that  takes  up  a  good  deal  of  room  in  the  fancy,  and,  by  con- 
*'  fequence,  will  improve  into  the  highell  pitch  of  aitoniili- 
"  ment  and  devotion,  when  we  contemplate  his  nature,  that 
**  is  neither  circumfcribed  by  time  nor  place,  nor  to  be  com- 
"  prehended  by  the  largeft  capacity  of  a  created  being." 

Here,  our  Autlior's  Style  rifes  beautifully  along  with  the 
thought.     However  inaccurate  he  may  fometimes  be,  when 

coolly 


320         CRITICAL  EXAMINATIOy  OF      Lect.  XXII. 

coolly  philofophifing,  yet,  whenever  his  fnncy  is  awalcened  by 
defcription,  or  his  mind,  as  here,  warmed  with  fome  glowing 
fentiment,  he  prefently  becomes  great,  and  difcovers,  in  his  lan- 
guage, the  hand  of  a  mail-er.  Evsvy  one  mud  obferve,  witii 
what  felicity  this  period  is  conftruiled.  The  words  are  long 
and  majeftic.  The  members  rife  one  above  another,  and  con- 
duct the  fent^nce,  at  lall,  to  that  full  and  harmonious  clofe, 
which  leaves  upon  the  mind  fuch  an  imjireinon,  as  the  Author 
intended  to  leave,  of  fomcthing  uncorrimonly  great,  av/ful,  and 
magnificent. 

*'  He  has  annexed  a  fecret  pleafure  to  the  idea  of  any  thing 
**  that  is  new  or  uncommon,  that  he  might  encourage  us  ia 
*'  the  purfuit  of  knowledge,  and  engage  us  to  fearch  into  the 
**  wonders  of  creation  ;  for  every  new  idea  brings  fuch  a 
"  pleafure  along  with  it,  as  rewards  the  pains  we  have  taken 
*'  in  its  acquifition,  and  conf^-quently,  ferves  as  a  motive  to  put 
*'  us  upon  frefii  difcoveries." 

The  language,  in  this  fentence,  is  clear  and  prccife  :  only, 
we  cannot  but  obferve,  in  this,  and  the  two  following  fentences, 
which  are  conftruiTled  in  the  fame  manner,  a  ilrong  proof  of 
Mr.  Addifon's  unreafonable  partiality  to  the  particle,  that,  in 
preference  to  nvhich.  Annexed  a  fei-ret  pic.ifurc  to  the  idea  of  any 
thing  that  is  nt-iu  or  uncommon^  that  he  might  encourage  us.  Here 
the  firil  th<it  ftands  for  a  relative  pronoun,  ?au{  the  next  ihaty 
at  the  diftance  only  of  four  words,  is  a  conjunilion.  This  con- 
fufion  of  founils  ferves  to  embarrafs  Style.  Much  better,  fare, 
to  have  faid,  the  idea  of  an'^  Vumg  <-ivhich  is  tienv  or  uncommon,  that 
he  might  encourage.  Th.e  expreillon  with  which  the  fentence 
concludes,  a  imtive  to  put  us  uponfrefj  difcoveries^  is  flat,  and,  in 
fome  degree,  improper.  He  Ihould  have  faid,  put  us  upon 
making  fre/Jj  clfccveries  ;  or  rathcx,  ferves  as  a  motive  inciting  us  to 
make  frefh  difcoveries. 

"  He  has  made  every  thing  that  is  beautiful  in  our  own 
*'  fpecics,  pleafant,  that  all  creatures  might  be  tempted  to  mul- 
*'  tiply  their  kind,  and  fdl  the  world  with  inhabitants  ;  foi*,  'tis 
"  very  remarkable,  that,  wherever  nature  is  croft  in  the  produc- 
'*  tion  of  a  moniter,  (the  refult  of  any  unnatural  mixture)  the 
"  breed  is  incapable  of  propagating  its  Ukenefs,  and  of  found- 

"  inn 


Lect.  XXIL    the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  413.         32: 

^'  ing  a  new  order  of  creatures ;  fo  that,  unlefs  all  animals  were 
*'  allured  by  the  beauty  of  their  own  fpecies,  generation  would 
**  be  at  an  end,  and  the  earth  unpeopled." 

Here  we  muft,  however  reluctantly,  return  to  the  employ- 
ment of  cenfure  :  for  this  is  among  the  worft  fcntences  our 
Author  ever  wrote ;  and  contains  a  variety  of  blcmilhes.  Taken 
as  a  whole,  it  is  extremely  deficient  in  unity.  Indead  of  a 
complete  propofition,  it  contains  a  fort  of  chain  of  reafoning, 
the  links  of  which  are  fo  ill  put  together,  that  it  is  with  dif- 
ficuhy  we  can  trace  the  connexion  ;  and,  unlefs  we  take  the 
trouble  of  perufing  it  feveral  times,  it  will  leave  nothing  on 
the  mind  but  an  indiflin^l:  and  obfcure  imprelhon. 

Befides  this  general  fault,  rcfpefling  the  meaning,  it  contains 
fome  great  inaccuracies  in  language.  Firft,  God's  having 
made  every  thing  which  is  beautiful  in  curoiu/tjpecies,  (that  is,  in 
the  human  {pec'ics)  pka/anf,  is  certainly  no  motive  ior  all  crea- 
.turest  for  hearts,  and  birds,  and  filhes,  to  multiply  their  kind. 
What  the  author  meant  to  fay,  though  he  has  exprefled  himfelf 
in  fo  erroneous  a  manner,  undoubtecUy  was,  "  In  all  the  dlf- 
""  ferejit  orders  of  creatures,  he  has  made  every  thing,  which 
"  is  beautiful,  in  their  own  fpecies,  pleafant,  that  all  creatures 
*'  might  be  tempted  to  multiply  their  kind."  The  fecond  mem- 
ber of  tlie  fentence  is  ftill  worfe.  For,  it  is  very  remarkable, 
•that  wherever  nature  is  crojl  in  the  produBion  of  a  monjler^  l^c. 
The  reafon  which  he  here  gives,  for  the  preceding  aflertion,  in- 
timated by  the  cafual  particle  for-y  is  far  from  being  obvious. 
The  connexion  of  thought  is  not  readily  apparent,  and  vi^ould 
have  required  an  intermediate  flep,  to  render  it  di(tin6l.  But, 
what  does  he  mean,  by  nature  being  crojl  in  the  produBion  of  a  7;w/;.» 
Jler  ?  One  might  underftand  him  to  mean,  "  difappointed  in 
*'  its  ir)tenC!on  of  producing  a  monfter,"  as  when  we  fay,  one 
is  croft  in  his  piirfuits,  we  mean,  that  he  is  difappointed  in  ac- 
complifliing  the  end  which  he  intended.  Had  he  faid  cro/i  by 
the  produclion  of  a  monjler,  the  fenfe  would  liave  been  more  intel- 
ligible. But  tlie  proper  rectification  of  the  expreihon  wouidL 
be  to  infert  the  adverb  as,  before  the  prepofition  in,  after  this 
manner  ;  ivhercver  nature  is  crrjl,  as  in  the  produclion  of  a  morjier. 
The  infertion  of  this  particle  as,  throws  fo  much  light  on  the 
condrudioa  of  this  member  of  the  lentence,  that  I  am  very 
S  s  much 


322  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      Lect.XXIL 

much  inclined  to  believe,  it  had  flood  thus,  originally,  in  our 
Author's  manufcrlpt ;  and  that  the  prefent  reading  is  a  typo- 
graphical error,  whicli,  having  crept  into  the  firit  edition  of 
the  Spectator,  ran  through  all  the  fubfequent  ones. 

"  In  the  lall  place,  he  has  made  every  thing  that  is  beauti- 
"  ful,  in  all  other  obje£ls,  plealant,  or  rather  has  made  (o  many 
"  objedls  appear  beautiful,  that  he  might  render  the  whole 
*'  creation  more  gay  and  delightful.  He  has  given  almod 
*'  every  thing  about  us  the  power  of  railing  an  agreeable  idea 
"  in  the  imagination  ;  fo  that  it  is  impoffible  for  us  to  beiiold 
"  hij  works  with  coldnefs  or  indifference,  and  to  furvey  fo 
**  many  beauties  without  a  fecret  fatisfacUon  and  compiacencv." 

The  idea,  here,  is  fo  juft,  and  the  language  fo  clear,  flow- 
ing, and  agreeable,  that,  to  remark  any  diffufenefs  which  may 
be  attributed  to  thefe  fentences,  would  be  jullly  elleemed  hy- 
percritical. 

"  Things  would  have  made  but  a  poor  appearance  to  the 
*'  eye,  if  we  faw  them  only  in  their  proper  figures  and  motions  : 
*'  and  v.'hat  realbn  can  we  aflign  for  their  exciting  in  us,  many 
"  of  thofe  ideas  which  are  dilTerent  from  any  thing  that  exifts 
"  in  the  obje£ls  themfelves,  (for  luch  are  light  and  colours) 
"  were  it  not  to  add  fupernumerary  ornaments  to  the  univerfe, 
*'  and  make  it  more  agreeable  to  the  imagination  ?" 

Our  Author  is  now  entering  on  a  theory,  which  he  is  about 
to  illuftrate,  if  not  With  much  philofophical  accuracy,  yet,  with 
great  beauty  of  fancy,  and  glow  of  expreflion.  A  llrong  in- 
ftance  of  his  want  of  accuracy,  appears  in  the  manner  in  which 
he  opens  the  fubjedl.  For  what  meaning  is  there  in  thing., 
exciting  in  us  many  of  thofe  ideas  luhich  are  different  from  any  thin^ 
that  cxifls  in  the  ohjeEls  ?  No  one,  furc,  ever  imagined,  that  our 
ideas  exift  in  the  objects.  Ideas,  it  is  agreed  on  all  hands,  can 
exill  no  where  but  in  the  mind.  What  Mr.  Locke's  philofophy 
teaches,  and  what  our  Author  ihould  have  iz'idy  is  exciting  in  us 
many  ideas  of  qicalities  ivhich  are  different  from  any  thing  that  eX' 
ifls  in  the  ohjccls.  The  ungraceful  parenthefis  which  follows, 
for  fuch  are  light  and  colours,  Iiad  far  better  have  been  avoided, 
and  incorporated  with  the  reft  of  the  Sentence,  in  this  man- 
ner :    "  exciting  in  us  many  ideas  of  C]ualitics,  fuch  as  light 

"  and 


Lect.XXII.     the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  413.         323 

*'  and  colours,  which  are  different  from  any  thing  that  exifts 
"in  theobjeas." 

"  We  arc  every  where  entertained  with  pleafing  fhows,  and 
"  apparitions.  We  difcover  imaginary  glories  in  the  heavens, 
"  and  in  the  earth,  and  fee  fome  of  this  vifionary  beauty  poured 
*'  out  upon  the  whole  creation  ;  but  what  a  rough  unfightly 
*'  fketch  of  nature  (hould  we  be  entertained  with,  did  all  her 
"  colouring  difappear,  and  the  feveral  diftinflions  of  light  and 
**  fliade  vanifli  ?  In  {hort,  our  fouls  are  delightfully  lod  and  be- 
"  wildered  in  a  pleafing  delufion  ;  and  we  walk  about  like  the 
"  enchanted  hero  of  a  romance,  who  fees  beautiful  caftles, 
**  woods,  and  meadows ;  and,  at  the  fame  time,  hears  the  warb- 
"  ling  of  birds,  and  the  puiling  of  ftreams  ;  but,  upon  the 
"  finilhing  of  fome  fecret  fpell,  the  fantaiHc  fcene  breaks  up, 
*'  and  the  difconfolate  knight  finds  himfelf  on  a  barren  heath, 
"  or  in  a  folitary  defert." 

After  having  been  obliged  to  point  out  feveral  inaccuracies, 
I  return  wiLh  much  more  pleafure  to  the  difplay  of  beauties,  for 
which  we  have  now  full  fcope  -,  for  thefe  two  fentences  are 
fuch  as  do  the  highcll  honour  to  Mr.  Addifon's  talent  as  a  wri- 
ter. Warmed  with  the  idea  he  had  hiid  hold  of,  his  delicate 
fenfibility  to  the  beauty  of  nature,  is  finely  difplayed  in  the  il- 
luflratlon  of  it.  The  (lyle  is  flowing  and  full,  without  be- 
ing too  diffufe.  It  is  flowery,  but  not  gaudy  ;  elevated,  but 
not  oftentatious, 

Amidft  this  blaze  of  beauties,  it  is  necefiln-y  for  us  to  remark 
one  or  two  inaccuracies.  When  it  is  faid,-  towards  the  clofe 
of  the  firfl  of  thofe  fentences,  luLat  a  rough  unfightly  (ketch  of 
nature  fJjould  ive  he  entertained  nvUh^  the  prepofition  ■uvVy^,  fhould 
liavc  been  placed  at  tiie  beginning,  rather  than  at  the  end  of 
tills  member  ;  and  the  word  entertained,  is  both  improperly  ap- 
plied here,  and  carelefsly  repeated  from  the  former  part  of  the 
fentence.  It  was  there  employed  according  to  its  more  com-- 
mon  ufe,  as  relating  to- agreeable  objects.  JVc  are  every  ivhers- 
in!crtained  iviih  plefingfo'iu^.  Here,  it  would  have  been  m.ore 
jiroper  to  have  changed  tlic  phrafe,  and  fild,  with  ivhat  a 
rough  unfightly  fketch  of  nature  JJjould  ire  l-e  prefented.  At  the 
rlofe  of  the  fecond  fentencc,  where  it  is  fliid,  the  fmiafic  fccne 

breaks 


324  CRITICAL  EXAINIINATION  OF    LF.cT.XXir. 

breahs  rip^  the  exprefTion  is  lively,  but  not  altogether  juftifiable. 
An  afll-mbly  bnahs  up  ,•   a  fcene  clcfcs  or  difappears. 

Bating  thefe  two  flight  inaccuracies,  the  Style,  here,  is  not 
only  correct,  but  perfedly  elegant.  The  mod  flriking  beauty 
of  thepaflage  arifes  from  the  happy  fimile  which  the  Author 
employs,  and  the  fine  ill uftration  which  it  gives  to  the  thought. 
The  enchanted  heroy  the  beautiful  cafrksy  the  fantnjlic  fceve^ 
the  fecret  fpell,  the  dijconfolate  kr.ight,  are  terms  chofen  with  the« 
utmoft  felicity,  and  (trongly  recal  all  thofe  romantic  ideas  with, 
which  he  intended  to  amufe  our  imagination.  Few  authors, 
are  more  fuccefsful  in  their  imagery  than  Mr.  Addifon  ;  and 
few  pafiages  in  his  works,  or  in  thofe  of  any  author,  are  mor© 
beautiful  and  pidurefque,  than  that  on  which  we  have  been 
commenting;. 

"  It  is  not  improbable,  that  fomething  like  this  may  be  the 
*'  ftate  of  the  foul  after  its  firft  feparation,  in  refpedl  of  the 
**  images  it  will  receive  from  matter  ;  though,  indeed,  the 
"  ideas  of  colours  are  fo  pleafing  and  beautiful  in  the  imagina- 
*'  tion,  that  it  is  poffible  the  foul  will  not  be  deprived  of 
**  them,  but,  perhaps,  find  them  excited  by  fome  other  occa- 
*'  fional.  caufe,  as  they  are,  at  prefent,  by  the  different  impref- 
*'  fions  of  the  fubtile  matter  on  the  organ  of  fight." 

As  all  human  things,  after  having  attained  the  fummit,  be- 
gin to  decline,  we  mull  acknowledge,  that,  in  this  fentence, 
there  is  a  fenfible  falling  off  from  the  beauty  of  what  went 
before.  It  is  broken,  and  deficient  in  unity.  Its  parts  are 
not  fufRciently  compa£led.  It  contains,  bpfides,  fome  faulty 
exprefTions.  When  it  is  i^u\,  fomething  like  this  may  b(  the  fate 
of  the  foul ^  to  the  pronoun  this^  there  is  no  dctenviined  antece- 
dent j  it  refers  to  the  general  import  of  the  preceding  de- 
fcription,  which,  as  I  have  feveral  tim?s  remarked,  always 
rendered  Style  clumfy  and  inelegant,  if  net  obfcure — the  flats 
of  the  foul  after  its  firf  fpnrationy  appears  to  be  an  incomplete 
phrafe,  zwAfif,  feems  an  ufelefs,  and  even  an  improper  v-orc*., 
More  diflincl:  if  he  had  hid,  fate  of  the  ful  ivwicdtatcly  en  it: 
f par  at  1071  from  the  body.  The  ?ii\\cxh  perhaps^  is  redundant  after 
having  juft  befpre  faid,  it  is  pofjible. 

*^  i  have 


Lect.XXIL    the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  413.         32$ 

"  I  have  here  fuppofed,  that  my  reader  is  acquainted  with 
**  that  great  modern  diicovery,  which  is,  at  prefent,  univerfal- 
**  ly  acknowledged  by  all  the  inquirers  into  natural  philofophy  5 
**  namely,  that  light  and  colours,  as  apprehended  by  the  imag- 
*'  ination,  are  only  ideas  in  the  mind,  and  not  qualities  that 
"  have  anv  exiftence  in  matter.  As  this  is  a  truth  which  has 
*'  been  proved  inconteltibly  by  many  modern  philofophers,  and 
"  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  iineft  fpeculations  in  that  fcience.,  if 
**  the  Englilh  reader  would  fee  the  notion  explained  at  large, 
"  lie  may  find  it  in  the  eighth  chapter  of  the  fecond  book  of 
*'  Mr.  Lock's  Eflay  on  the  Human  Underftanding." 

In  thefc  two  concluding  fentences,  the  Author,  haftening 
to  finifh,  appears  to  write  rather  carclefsly.  In  the  firll  of 
them,  a  manifeft  tautology  occurs,  when  he  fpeaks  of  what  is 
tiniverfally  achmivledged  by  all  inquirers.  In  the  fecond,  when 
he  calls  a  truth  ivhich  has  bafi  inccntejlably  proved ;  firfl,  zfpccula- 
tioiiy  and  afterwards  a  notion^  the  language  furely  is  not  very 
accurate.  When  he  adds,  one  of  the  finejl  fpeculations  in  that 
fcience,  it  docs  not,  at  fii'ft,  appear  what  fcience  he  means.  One 
would  im.ngine,  he  meant  to  refer  to  modern  philofophers ;  for 
natural  philofophy  (to  which,  doubtlefs,  he  refers)  Hands  at  much 
too  great  a  diflance  to  be  the  proper  or  obvious  antecedent  to 
the  pronoun  that.  The  circumftance  towards  the  clofe,  if  the 
Englifj  reader  nvould  fee  the  notion  explaitied  at  large y  he  may  find 
ity  is  properly  taken  notice  of  by  the  Author  of  the  Elements 
of  Criticifm,  as  wrong  arranged  ;  and  is  reflified  thus  :  the 
KngUfj  reader^  if  he  ivould fee  the  notion  explained  at  large,  tnay 
find  ity  ^c. 

In  concluding  the  Examination  of  this  Paper,  wc  may  ob- 
ferve,  that,  though  not  a  very  long  one,  it  exhibits  a  llriking 
view  both  of  the  beauties,  and  the  dcfedls,  of  Mr.  Addifon's 
Style.  It  contains  fome  of  the  belt,  and  feme  of  the  worll 
fentences,  that  are  to  be  found  in  his  works.  Bur  upon  the 
whole,  it  is  an  agreeable  and  elegant  Eflay. 


LECTURff. 


JILIIL  — LHJLHJ  . 


LECTURE         XXIIL 


CRITICAL    EXAMINATION     OF    THE     STYLE    11^ 
No.  414  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

i-F  we  confidcr  the  works  of  nature  2nd  art,  a^ 
"  they  are  qualified  to  entertain  the  imagination,  we  Ihall  find 
"  the  lafl  very  defe£live  in  comparifon  of  the  former ;  for 
^'  though  they  may  fometimes  appear  as  beautiful  or  fcrange, 
"  they  can  have  nothing  in  them  of  that  vaftncfs  and  immcnfity 
*'  which  afibrd  fo  great  an  entertainment  to  the  mind  of  the 
"  beholder/' 

I  had  occafion  formerly  to  obferve,  that  an  introdu£lory 
fentence  {hould  always  be  fliort  and  fimple,  and  contain  no 
more  matter  than  is  neceffary  for  opening  the  fubje£t.  This 
fentence  leads  to  a  repetition  of  this  obfervation,  as  it  contains- 
both  an  aflertion  and  the  proof  of  tliat  aflertion  ;  two  tilings 
which,  for  the  moft  part,  but  efpecially  at  firrt  fetting  ■  out, 
are  with  more  advantage  kept  feparate.  It  would  certainlv 
have  been  better,  if  this  fentence  had  contained  only  the  afTer- 
tion,  ending  with  the  word  fomier  :  and  if  a  new  one  had  then 
begun,  entering  on  the  proofs  of  nature's  fuperiority  over  art^ 

,  wliich  is  the  fubje6t  continued  to  the  end  of  the  paragraph. 
The  proper  divifion  of  the  period  I  fliall  point  out,  after  hav- 
ing firft.  made  a  few  cbfervations  which  occur  on  dliTerent  parfj, 
of  it. 

If  nve  ccrjider  the  works.  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  pref- 
erable, if  our  Author  had  begun,  with  faying,  IFhen  nve  con- 

Jider  the  lucrh.  Difcourfe  ought  always  to  begin,  when  it  is 
pofiible,  with  a  clear  pvopofition.  The  if,  which  is  here  em- 
ployed, converts  the  fentence  into  a  fuppofition,  which  is  always 
in  fome  degree  entangling,  and  proper  to  be  ufed  only  when 
the  courfe  of  reafoning  renders  it  nectflary.  As  this  obferva- 
tic-n  however  may,  perhaps,  be  confidered  as  over-refined,  ?.vA 

as 


Xect.XXIII.    the  style  IN  SPECT.  No.  414.         327 

23  the  fenfc  would  have  remained  the  fame  in  cither  form  of 
cxprefFion,  I  do  not  mean  to  charr;e  our  Author  with  any  error 
on  this  account.  "VVe  cannot  abfolvt:  him  from  inaccuracy  in 
what  immediately  follows — the  works  of  nature  and  art.  It 
is  the  fcope  of  the  Autlior  throughout  this  whole  paper,  to 
compare  nature  and  art  together,  and  to  oppofe  them  in  fever- 
?il  views  to  each  other.  Certainly,  therefore,  in  the  beginning, 
he  ought  to  have  kept  them  as  diftintl  as  ponible,  by  interpcf- 
ing  the  prepofition,  and  faying  the  works  cf  Nature  and  of  Art. 
As  the  words  (land  ac  prefent,  they  would  lead  us  to  think 
that  he  is  going  to  treat  of  thefc  works,  not  as  contrafled,  but 
as  conne6led  ;  as  united  in  forming  one  whole.  When  I  fpeak 
of  body  and  foul  as  united  in  the  human  nature,  I  would  in- 
tcrpofe  neither  articles  nor  prepofition  between  them  ;  *'  Man 
*'  is  compounded  of  Soul  and  Body."  But  the  cafe  is  alteredj 
lit  I  mean  to  dillinguilh  them  from  each  other  ;  then  I  repre- 
sent them  as  feparate  ;  and  fay,  "  I  am  to  rreat  of  the  intereits 
*'  of  the  Soul,  and  of  the  Body." 

Though  they  ?r:.iy  foinetlmcs  appear  as  bfauiiful  or  J? range.  I 
cannot  help  confidering  this  as  a  loofe  member  of  the  period. 
It  does  not  clearly  appear  at  firft  what  the  antecedent  is  to  they. 
In  reading  onwards,  \vt  fee  the  works  of  art  to  be  meant ;  but 
from  the  llrudiurc  of  the  fentence,  they  might  be  underftood 
to  refer  to  the  former,  as  well  as  to  the  lafl.  In  what  follows, 
there  is  a  greater  ambiguity — may  fometimes  appear  as  beautiful 
or  flrange.  It  is  very  doubtful  in  what  fenfe  we  are  to  under- 
ftand  as,  in  this  pafPage.  For,  according  as  it  is  accented  i.n 
reading,  it  may  fignify,  that  they  appear  equally  heauiful  or  JJrangey 
to  wit,  with  the  works  of  nature  ;  and  then  it  has  the  force  of 
the  Latin  tarn  :  or  it  may  fignify  no  more  than  that  they  ap- 
pear in  the  light  of  beautiful  and  jlrange  ;  and  then  it  has  the 
force  of  the  Latin  tanquain,  without  importing  any  comparifon. 
An  expreluon  fo  ambiguous,  is  always  faulty  ;  and  it  is  doubly 
fo  here  -,  becaufe,  if  the  Author  ijitmded  the  former  fenfe,  and 
meant  (as  fcems  moii:  probable)  to  employ  as  for  a  mark  of 
comparifon,  it  was  neceifary  to  have  mentioned  both  the  compar- 
ed objects ;  whereas  only  one  member  of  the  comparifon  is 
here  mentioned,  viz.  the  works  of  art ;  and  if  he  intended  the 
latter  lenfe,  as  was  in  that  cafe  fuperfluous  and  encumbering, 
;uid  he  li.id  better  have  faid  fiinnhr^  appear  bevMifil  or  f  range. 

The 


o 


2S         CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF    Lect.  XXIII. 


The  c^hhQiJni/igey  wliicli  Mr.  Ad-lifon  applies  to  the  works 
of  art,  cannot  he  praifcd.  Strange  works,  appears  not  bv  any 
means  a  happy  expreffion  to  fignify  wliat  lie  here  intends, 
which  is  new  or  uncommon. 

The  fentence  concludes  with  much  harmony  and  dignity  ; 
they  can  have  ucthivg  in  them  of  that  vajinefs  and  immefifily  which 
afford  fo  great  an  entertainment  to  the  mind  of  the  beholder.  There 
is  here  a  fullncfs  and  grandeur- of  expreffion  well  fuited  to  the 
fubje£l ;  though,  perhaps,  entertainment  is  not  quite  the  proper 
word  for  expreffing  the  eifect  which  vaftners  and  immenfity 
have  upon  the  mind.  Reviewing  the  obfervations  that  have 
been  made  on  this  period,  it  might,  I  think,  with  advantage,  be 
refolved  iiKo  tv/o  fentences  fomev/hat  after  this  manner  ; 
*'  When  we  confider  the  works  of  nature  and  of  art,  as  they 
**  are  qualified  to  entertain  the  imagination,  we  fliall  find  tlie 
**  latter  \tr^]  defective  in  comparifon  of  the  former.  The  works 
•'  of  art  may  fomenmes  appear  no  lefs  beautiful  or  uncommon 
**  than  thofe  of  nature  5  but  they  can  have  nothing  of  thatvaft- 
*'  nefs  and  immenfity  v/hich  fo  highly  tranfport  the  mind  of 
**  the  beholder." 

*'  The  one,"  proceeds  our  author  in  the  next  fentence,  "  may 
*'  be  as  polite  and  delicate  as  the  other  ;  but  can  never  fliev/ 
**  herfelf  fo  auguil  and  magnificent  in  the  dcfign. 

The  one  and  the  olher^  in  the  firft  part  of  this  fentence,  muft 
unqueRionably  refer  to  the  nuorhs  of  nature  and  of  art.  For 
of  thefe  he  had  been  fpeaking  immediately  before  j  and  with 
reference  to  the  plural  word,  tuorh^  had  employed  the  plural 
pronoun  ikcy.  But  in  the  courfe  of  the  fentence,  he  drops  this 
conflru6lion  ;  and  pafles  very  incongruoully  to  the  perfonif^ca- 
tion  of  2.xt—— can  never  fhonu  herfef.  To  render  his  Style  con- 
fiftent,  arty  and  not  the  ivorks  of  art,  fhould  have  been  made 
the  nominative  in  this  fenteiice.  Art  may  be  as  polite  and  deli- 
cate as  nature,  but  can  never  fhoiv  herfelf.  Polite  is  a  term  oftener 
applied  to  perfons  arid  to  manners,  than  to  things  ;  and  is  en\- 
ployed  to  fignify  their  being  highly  civilized.  Polilhed,  or 
refined,  was  the  idea  which  the  Author  had  in  view.  Though 
the  general  turn  of  this  fentence  be  elegant,  yet,  in  order  to 
render  it  perfe£l,  I  muft  obferve,  that  the  concluding  words, 
in  the  dcfign,  fhould  either  have  been  altogether  omitted,  or 

fomething 


Lect.  XXIII.     THE  STYLE  IN  ^PECT.  No.  414."        329 

foinethlng  fliouLl  have  been  properly  oppofed  to  them  in  the 
preceding  member  of  the  period,  thus  :  '*  Ait  may,  in  the 
*'  execution,  be  as  poli(hed  and  delicate  as  nature  ;  but,  in  the 
*'  dcfign,  can  never  fliow  herfelf  fo  augull  and  magnificent." 

"  There  is  fum.ething  more  bold  and  mafterly  in  the  rough, 
"  carelefs  llrokes  of  nature,  than  in  the  nice  touches  and  em- 
*'  bellilhments  of  art." 

This  feutence  is  perfeiflly  happy  and  elegant ;  and  carries, 
in  all  the  exprellions,  that  curhfa  feUcitas,  for  which  Mr.  Ad- 
difon  is  fo  often  remarkable.  Bjld  and  majlerlyy  are  words  ap- 
plied with  the  utmoll  propriety.  The  firokes  of  nature,  are 
•finely  oppofed  to  the  touches  of  art ;  and  the  rough  frohes  to  the 
nice  toiixhes  t  the  former,  painting  the  freedom  andeafe  of  nature, 
end  the  other,  the  diminutive  exatlnefs  of  art ;  while  both  are 
introduced  before  us  as  dirTerent  performers,  and  their  refpe£live 
merits  in  execution  very  jutlly  concrafted  with  each  other. 

"  The  beauties  of  the  moil  fhately  garden  or  palace  lie  in  a 
"  narrow  compafs,ths  imagination  immediately  runs  them  over, 
"  and  requires  fomething  elfe  to  gratify  her  ;  but  in  the  wild 
"  fi.dds  of  nature,  the  fight  wanders  up  and  down  without 
"  confinement,  and  is  fed  with  an  infinite  variety  of  images, 
'*  without  any  certain  (lint  or  number." 

This  fentence  is  not  altogether  fo  corre£l  and  elegant  as  the 
former.  It  carries,  howcvc-r,  in  the  main,  the  character  of  our 
Author's  Style  -,  not  llritlly  accurate,  but  ^igrceable,  eafy,  and 
unafFe6led ;  enlivened  too  v/ith  a  flight  perfonification  of  the 
imagination,  which  gives  a  gaiety  to  the  period.  Perhaps  it 
had  been  better,  if  this  perfonification  of  the  imagination,  with 
which  the  fentence  is  introduced,  had  been  continued  through- 
out, and  not  changed  unneceflarily,  and  even  improperly,  Into 
fght,  in  the  fecond  member,  which  is  contrary  both  to  unity 
and  elegance.  It  might  have  flood  thus  :  the  imagwation  hnme^ 
dlitely  runs  thetn  over^  and  requires  fomething  e!fe  to  gratify  her  ; 
but  in  the  ixiild  felds  of  nature,  fhe  nvanders  up  and  doiun  nvlthcut 
confinement.  The  epithety?tf/f/)',  which  the  Author  ufes  in  the 
beginning  of  the  fentence,  applies  with  more  propriety  to  pal- 
aces ^  than  to  gardens.  The  clofe  of  the  fentence,  luithout  any  cer- 
tain fint  or  number,  may  be  obje<Sled  to,  as  both  funerfluous,  and 
ungraceful.  It  might  perhaps  have  terminated  better  in  this 
T  T  manner : 


33«         CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF     Lect.XXIII. 

manner  :  Jke  is  fed  with  an  infinite  variety  of  images y  and  wanders 
up  and  down  without  confinement. 

"  For  this  reafon,  we  always  find  the  poet  in  love  with  a 
"  country  life,  where  nature  appears  in  the  greateft  perfedion, 
"  and  furniflies  out  all  thofe  fcenes  that  are  moft  apt  to  delight 
"  the  imagination." 

There  is  nothing  In  this  fentence  to  atfraft  particular  atten- 
tion. One  v/ould  think  it  was  ratiier  the  country^  than  a  country 
life,  on  which  the  remark  here  made  fliould  reft.  A  country  lifg 
may  be  produ^live  of  fimplicity  of  manners,  and  of  other  vir- 
tues ;  but  it  is  to  the  country  itfelf,  that  the  properties  here  men- 
tioned belong,  of  difplaying  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  fur- 
nilhing  thofe  fcenes  which  delight  the  imagination. 

*'  But  though  there  are  feverril  of  thefe  v/ild  fcenes  that  arc 
**  more  delightful  than  any  artificial  fhows,  yet  m'c  find  the 
*'  works  of  nature  fbill  more  pleafant,  the  more  they  refemble 
*'  thofe  of  art  •,  for  in  this  cafe,  our  pleafure  rifes  from  a  double 
*'  prir^ciple  ;  from  the  agreeablenefs  of  the  obje^ls  to  the  eye, 
**  and  from  their  fimilitude  to  otiier  obje£ls  :  we  are  pleafed, 
*'  as  well  with  comparing  their  beauties,  as  with  fiirveying  them, 
'■'^  and  can  reprefent  them  to  our  minds  either  as  copies  or  as 
*'  originals.  Hence  it  is,  that  we  take  delight  in  a  profpe6l 
'*  which  is  well  laid  out,  and  diverfified  with  fields  and  mead- 
*'  ows,  woods  and  rivers ;  in  thofe  accidental  landfcapes  of 
**  trees,  clouds,  and  cities,  that  arc  fometimes  found  in  the  veins 
*'  of  marble,  in  the  tvrlous  fretwork  of  rocks  and  grottos  ;  and, 
*'  in  a  word,  in  any  thing  that  hath  fuch  a  degree  of  variety 
*'  and  regularity  as  may  feem  the  effedl  of  defign,  in  what  we 
*'  call  the  works  of  chance." 

The  Style  Inthe  two  fentences,  which  com pofe this  paragraph, 
13  fmooth  and  perfpicuous.  It  lies  open  in  fome  places  to  crit- 
icifm  ;  but  left  the  reader  fhould  be  tired  of  what  he  may  con- 
fider  as  petty  remarks,  I  fh;:il  pafs  over  any  which  thefe  fen- 
tences fuggeft  i  the  rather  too,  as  the  idea  which  they  prefent 
to  us,  of  nature's  refembling  art,  or  art's  being  confidered  as 
un  original,  and  nature  as  a  copy,  fecms  not  very  diftinft  nor 
well  brought  out,  nor  indeed  very  material  to  our  Author's 
purpofe. 

"If 


Lect.  XXIII.    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  414.        331 

"  If  the  produ£ls  of  nature  rife  in  value,  according  as  they 
"  more  or  lefs  refemble  thofe  of  art,  we  may  be  fure  that  ar- 
*'  tificial  works  receive  a  greater  advantage  from  therefemblancc 
"  of  fuch  as  are  natural ;  becaufe  here  the  fimilitude  is  not  only 
*•  pleafant,  but  the  pattern  more  perfeQ.'* 

It  is  neceffary  to  our  prefent  defign,  to  point  out  two  con- 
fiderable  inaccuracies  which  occur  in  this  fentcnce.  If  the 
produEis  (he  had  better  have  faid  the  produBwns )  of  n/ilure  rife 
in  'value  according  as  they  more  or  lefs  referable  thofe  of  art.  Does 
he  mean,  that  thefe  productions  rife  in  value  both  according  as 
they  more  refemble,  and  as  they  lefs  refemble^  thofe  of  art  ?  His 
meaning  undoubtedly  is,  that  they  rife  in  value  only,  according 
as  they  more  refemble  them  :  and,  therefore,  either  of  thefe 
words,  or  lefsy  muft  be  flruck  out,  or  the  fentcnce  mufl  run 
thus — produBiotis  of  tiaiure  rfe  or  fink  in  value,  according  as  they 
more  or  lefs  refemble.  The  prefent  conftrudion  of  the  fentence 
has  plainly  been  owing  to  hafty  and  carelefs  writing. 

The  other  inaccuracy  is  towaids  the  end  of  the  fentencCy 
and  ferves  to  illuftrate  a  rule  which  I  formerly  gave,  concerning 
the  portion  of  adverbs.  The  Author  fays,  becaufe  here,  the 
fimilitude  is  fiot  only  pleafant,  but  the  pattern  more  perfect.  Here, 
by  the  pofition  of  the  adverb  only,  we  are  led  to  imagine  that 
he  is  going  to  give  fome  other  property  of  the  fimilitude,  that 
it  is  not  only  plenfani,  as  he  fays,  but  m.ore  than  pleafant ;  it  is 
ufeful,  or,  on  fome  account  or  other,  valuable.  Whereas,  he 
is  going  to  oppofe  another  thing  to  \i\\cf:miUtude  itfelf,  and  not 
to  this  property  of  its  he'ivg  pleafjnt ;  and,  therefore,  the  right 
collocation,  beyond  doubt,  was,  becaufe  here,  net  only  the  fimili- 
tude is  pleafnt,  but  the  pattern  more  perfeEl  :  the  contraft  lying, 
vox.  between  pleafant  and  more  perfecJyhnt  between  fimilitude  and 
patterfu  Much  of  the  ckarnefs  and  neatnefs  of  Style  depends- 
On  fuch  attentions  as  thefe. 

*'  The  prettiefl  landfcape  I  ever  faw,  was  one  drawn  on  ix\t 
"  walls  of  a  dark  room,  which  flood  oppofite  on  one  fide  to  a 
''  navigable  river,  and,  on  the  other,  to  a  park.  The  experi- 
*'  mciit  is  very  common  in  optics." 

In  the  defcription  of  the, landfcape  which  follows,  Mr.  Ad- 
difon  is  abundantly  happy ;  but  in  this  introdudion  to  it,  he 
is  cbfcure  and  indiftina.     One  v/ho  had  not  (cen  the  experi- 
ment 


332         CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF    Lect.XXIIL 

mentof  the  camera  obfcurn,  could  coinpreiiend  nothing  of  what 
he  meant.  And  even,  after  we  undcrftand  what  he  points  at, 
we  are  nt  fome  lofs,  whether  to  undcrfiiand  his  dcfcription  as  of 
one  continued  landfcape,  or  of  two  different  one>s,  produced 
by  the  projection  of  the  two  camera  obfcuras  on  oppoGte 
walls.  The  fcene,  which  I  am  inclined  to  think  Mr.  Addlfon 
here  refers  to,  is  Greenwich  park,  with  the  profpeCl  of  the 
Thames,  as  feen  by  a  camera  obfcura,  which  is  placed  in  a 
fmall  room  in  the  upper  flory  of  the  obfervatory  j  where  I 
remember  to  hare  feen,  many  years  ago,  the  whole  fcene  here 
defcribed,  correfponding  fo  much  to  Mr.  Addifon's  account  of 
jtin  this  pafTage,  tliar,  at  the  time,  it  rccnllcd  it  to  my  memory. 
As  the  obfervatory  flands  in  the  middle  of  the  park,  it  over- 
locks,  from  one  fide,  both  the  river  and  the  park  ;  and  the  ob- 
]e£ls  afterwards  mentioned,  the  fliips,  the  trees,  and  the  deer, 
are  prefented  in  one  view,  without  needing  any  afhftance  from- 
oppofite  walls.  Put  into  plainer  language,  the  fentence  might 
■run  thus  :  "  The  prettiefl  landfcape  I  ever  faw,  was  one  form- 
**  ed  by  a  camera  obfcura,  a  common  optical  inftrumcnt,  on 
**  the  wall  of  a  dark  room,  which  overlooked  a  navigable  river 
"  and  a  park." 

*'Here  you  might  difcover  the  waves  and  flufluations  of 
*'the  water  in  flrong  and  proper  colours,  with  the  pi(^iure  of 
**  a  fliip  entering  at  one  end,  and  failing  by  degrees  through 
*'  the  whole  piece.  Cn  another,  there  appeared  the  grcert 
*'  (liadov/s  of  trees,  waving  to  and  fro  with  the  wind,  and 
*'  herds  of  deer  among  them  in  miniature,  leaping  about  upon 
« the  wall." 

Bating  one  or  two  fmall  inaccuracies,  this  is  beautiful  nnd 
lively  painting.  The  principal  inaccuracy  lies  in  the  connc  •- 
ion  of  the  two  fentences,  Here^  and  0/;  another.  I  fuppcfc  the 
Author  meant,  on  one  fide,  and  on  atwther  fide.  As  it  ftands, 
another  is  ungrammatical,  havirg  ncthirg  to  which  it  refers. 
Eut  the  fluctuations  of  the  water,  the  fliip  entering  and  failing 
on  by  degrees,  the  trees  waving  in  the  uind,and  the  herds  of 
deer  among  them  leaping  about,  is  all  very  elegant,  and  gives 
a  beautiful  conception  of  tlie  fcene  meant  to  bo  defcribed. 

*'I  muR  confcfs  the  novelty  of  fuch  a  ^^^\U  may  he  one 
"  occafion  of  its  pleaiTantncfs  to  the  imaginaiion  j  but  certtii'j.ly 

"  the 


Lect.  XXIII.     THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No.  414.       333 

*^  die  chief  reafon,  is  its  near  refemblance  to  nature ;  ns  It 
*' does  not  only,  like  other  pictures,  give  the  colour  2nd  figure, 
**  but  the  motions  of  the  things  it  reprefents." 

In  this  fentence  there  is  nothing  remarkable,  either  to  be 
praifed  or  blamed.  In  the  conclufion,  inftead  of  the  iIAfigs  it 
reprefentSi  the  regularity  of  corre£l  Style  requires  the  ihwgj 
ivhich  it  reprefefiis.  In  the  beginning,  as  one  cccnfton  and  the 
chief  reafon  are  oppofed  to  one  anotlier,  I  fliould  think  it  better 
to  have  repeated  the  fame  word  ;  one  reafon  of  its  pleafaritnefs  io 
tic  imagination,  but  certainly  the  chief  reafon  isy  isfc. 

"  We  have  before  obferved,  that  there  is  generally,  In  na- 
"  turc,  fomething  more  grand  and  auguft  than  what  we  meet 
*'  with  in  the  curiofities  of  art.  "When,  therefore,  we  fee  this 
"  imitated  in  any  meafure,  it  gives  us  a  nobler  and  more  ex- 
**  alted  kind  of  pleafare,  than  what  we  receive  from  the  nicer 
**  and  more  accurate  productions  of  art." 

It  would  have  been  better  to  have  avoided  terminatin::'  thefc 
two  fentences  in  a  manner  fo  fimilar  to  each  other  ;  curifjties 
of  art~—pr:duftions  of  art. 

"  On  this  account,  cur  Englifli  gardens  are  not  fo  cnter- 
*'  taining  to  the  fancy  as  thofe  in  France  and  Italy,  where  we 
**  fee  a  large  extent  of  ground  covered  over  with  an  agreeable 
*'  mixture  of  garden  and  foreft,  which  reprcfents  every  whei-e 
*'  an  artificial  rudenefs,  much  more  charming  than  that  neat- 
**  nefs  and  elegance  which  we  meet  with  in  thofe  of  our  own 
*'  country." 

The  cxpreffion  rcprcfer.ts  every  iihere  cji  artifcicl  rudenefs y  Is 
fo  inaccurate,  that  I  am  inclined  to  think,  what  flood  in  Mr, 
Addifon's  manufcript  muft  have  been,  prefr.ts  every  ivherc* 
For  the  mixture  of  garden  and  foreft  docs  not  reprefent,  but 
aOuaily  exhibits  or  prefentSy  artificial  rudenefs.  That  mixture 
reprefnts  indeed  natural  rtidetiefs,  that  is,  is  dcHgned  to  imitate 
it  ;   but  it  in  reality  ij,  and  prefinis,  artificial  rudc-nefs. 

"  It  might  indeed  be  of  ill  confequence  to  the  public,  as 
*'  well  as  unprofitable  to  private  perfons,  to  alienate  fo  much 
"  ground  from  psfturagc  and  the  plough,  in  many  parts  of  a 
"  country  that  is  fo  well  peopled  and  cultivated  to  afar  grcat- 
*'  er  advantage.  But  why  may  not  a  v.hole  eftate  be  thrown 
**  into  a  kind  of  garden  by  frequ4;nt  pIautatIor;S.  x\v\i  r.r:.(-  -.urn 


334  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF    Uct.  XXIII. 

"  as  much  to  the  profit  as  the  pleafure  of  the  owner  ?  A  mar(h 
**  overgrown  with  willows,  or  a  mountain  (haded  with  oaks, 
•*  are  not  only  more  beautiful,  but  more  beneficial,  than  when 
"  they  He  bare  and  unadorned.  Fields  of  corn  make  a  pleafant 
"  profne£l-  ;  and  if  the  v/alU  were  a  little  taken  care  of  that 
**  lie  between  them,  and  the  natural  embroidery  of  the  mead- 
*'  ov,'S  were  helped  and  improved  by  fome  fmall  additions  of 
"  art,  and  the  feveral  rows  of  hedges  were  fet  off  by  trees  and 
**  flowers  that  the  foil  was'  capable  of  receiving,  a  man  might 
''  make  a  pretty  landfcape  of  his  own  pofleflions.** 

The  ideas  here  are  juft,  and  the  Style  is  eafy  and  perfpicu- 
cus,  though  in  fome  places  bordering  en  the  carelefs.  In  that 
paflage,  for  inftance,  if  the  ivnlks  luere  a  little  taken  cnreofihat  lie 
h-civjeen  ihem,  one  member  is  clearly  out  of  its  place,  and  the 
tjjjm  of  the  phrafe,  a  little  taken  ears  off  is  vulgar  and  colloquial. 
J'luch  better,  if  it  had  run  thus  :  if  a  little  care  -were  bejloived 
en  the  nualk:  that  lie  between  them, 

*^  Writers  M'-ho  have  given  us  an  account  of  China,  tell  us, 
"  the  inhabitants  of  that  country  laugh  at  the  plantations  of 
*'  our  Europeans,  M'hich  are  laid  out  by  the  rule  and  the  line  5 
"  becaufc,  they  fay,  any  one  may  place  trees  in  equal  rows  and 
"uniform  figures.  They  ohoofe  rather  to  fliow  a  genius  i« 
*'  works  of  this  nature,  and  therefore  always  conceal  the  art  by 
'*  which  they  dire£t  themfelves.  They  have  a  word,  it  feems, 
*'  in  their  Language,  by  which  they  exprefs  the  particular 
**  beauty  of  a  plantation,  that  thus  ftrikes  the  imagination  at 
*'  firft  fight,  without  difcovering  what  it  is  that  has  fo  agrees-^ 
"blean  efFea." 

Thefe  fentences  furnifh  occafion  for  no  remark,  except  that 
in  the  laft  of  them,  particular  is  improperly  ufed  inflcad  of 
peculiar  ;  the  peculiar  beauty  of  a  plantation  that  thus  ftrikes  the  im". 
agination^  was  the  phrafe  to  have  con\'eyed  the  idea  which  the 
Author  meant  ;  namely,  the  beauty  which  diftinguifheg  it  from, 
plantations  of  another  kind. 

"  Cur  Britifli  gardeners,  en  the  contrary,  inflead  of  hu-- 
"  mouring  nature,  love  to  deviate  from  it  as  much  as  poffible. 
"  Our  trees  rife  in  cones,  globes  and  pyramids.  We  fee  the 
"  marks  of  the  fciffors  on  every  plant  and  bufh." 

Thefe 


Lect.  XXIII.    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECT.  No,  414.       335 

Thefe  fentences  are  lively  and  elegant.  They  make  an  agree- 
able diverfity  from  the  ftrain  of  thofe  which  went  before  ;  and 
are  marked  with  the  hand  of  Mr.  Addifon.  I  have  to  remark 
only,  that,  in  the  phrafe,  injlead  of  humouring  nature,  love  to  de- 
viate from  it— —humouring  and  deviating^  are  terms  not  properly 
oppofcd  to  each  other  j  a  fort  of  perfonification  of  nature  is 
begun  in  the  firft  of  them,  which  is  not  fupported  in  the  fcc- 
ond.  To  humouring,  was  to  have  been  oppofed,  thwarting  ,- 
or  if  deviating  was"kept,  following,  or  going  along  with  nature, 
was  to  have  been  ufed. 

**  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  lingular  in  my  opinion,  but 
**  for  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  look  upon  a  ties,  in  ail  its 
"  luxuriaucy  and  diffufion  of  boughs  and  branches,  than  when 
**  it  is  thus  cut  and  trimmed  into  a  mathematical  figure;  and 
"  cannot  but  fancy  that  an  orchard,  in  flower,  looks  infinitely 
"  more  delightful,  than  all  the  little  labyrinths  of  the  mod  fin- 
"  ilhed  parterre." 

This  fentence  is  extremely  harmonious,  and  every  way  beau- 
tiful. It  carries  all  the  charadleriftlcc  of  our  Author's  natural, 
graceful,  and  flowing  language.  A  treC;  in  aU  its  luxuriaucy 
and  diffufton  of  boughs  and  branches,  is  a  remarkably  happy  cxpref- 
Tion.  The  Author  feems  to  become  luxuriant  in  defcribing  an 
objei£l  which  is  fo,  and  thereby  renders  the  found  a  perfe£l 
echo  to  the  fenfe. 

"  But  as  our  great  modellers  of  gardens  have  their  maga- 
*•  zines  of  plants  to  dlfpofe  of,  it  is  very  natural  in  them,  to 
"  tear  up  all  the  beautiful  plantations  of  fruit  trees,  and  con- 
"  trive  a  plan  that  may  mod  turn  to  their  profit,  in  taking  off 
"  their  evergreens,  and  the  like  moveable  plants,  with  wliici. 
*'  their  fhops  are  plentifully  Itocked." 

An  author  fliould  always  fludy  to  conclude,  when  it  is  in 
his  power,  with  grace  and  dignity.  It  is  fomewhat  unfortu- 
nate*, that  this  paper  did  not  end,  as  it  might  very  well  have 
done,  with  the  former  beautiful  period.  The  impreffion  l.^fr 
on  the  mind  by  the  beauties  of  nature,  with  v/hich  he  had 
been  entertaining  us,  would  then  have  been  more  agreeable, 
liut  in  this  fentence  there  is  a  great  falling  ofi^j  and  we  return 
with  pain  from  thofe  pleafing  objecls,  to  the  infigiiificant  con- 
tents of  a  nurfiry^man's  fhon. 

LECTURE 


LECTURE         XXIV. 


CRITICAL    EXAMINATION     OF    THE     STYLE     IN 
A  PASSAGE  OF  DEAN  SVv^iFT's  WJllTINGS. 

•]\/r 

IVXY  defign  in  the  four  pr'cedintr  Le£lures,  was  not 
mercdy  to  appreciate  the  merit  of  Mr.  Addifoii's  Style,  by  point- 
ing out  the  faults  and  the  beauties  that  zrz  mingled  in  the 
writings  of  that  great  author.  They  were  not  cornpofed  with 
any  view  to  gain  the  reputation  of  a  critic  ;  but  intended  for 
the  afliflance  of  fuch  as  are  defirous  of  ftudying  the  molt  prop- 
er and  elegant  conftru£lion  of  fentences  in  the  Englifli  Lan- 
guage. To  fuch,  it  is  hoped,  tliat  they  may  be  of  advantage  ; 
as  the  proper  apphcation  of  rules  refpe£ling  the  Style,  will 
always  be  belt  learned  by  means  of  the  illultration  which  ex- 
amples afford,  I  conceived  the  examples,  taken  from  the  writ- 
ings of  an  Author  fo  juflly  efteemed,  would,  on  that  account, 
not  only  be  more  attended  to,  but  would  alfo  produce  this  good 
cfFedt,  of  familiarifmg  thofe  who  ftudy  compontion  with  the 
Style  of  a  writer,  from  whom  they  may,  upon  the  whole,  derive 
great  benefit.  With  the  fame  view,  I  {lull,  in  this  Leisure, 
give  one  critical  exercife  more  of  the  flime  kind,  upon  the 
Style  of  an  Author  of  a  different  chara6lcr,  Dean  Swift  ;  re- 
peating the  intimation  I  gave  formerly,  that  fuch'  as  ftand  in 
need  of  no  affiltance  of  this  kind,  and  who,  therefore,  will 
naturally  confider  fuch  minute  difcufTions  concerning  the  pro- 
priety of  words,  and  ftru£lure  of  fentences,  as  beneath  their 
attention,  had  beft  pafs  over  what  will  feem  to  them  a  tedious 
part  of  the  work. 

I  formerly  gave  the  general  chara6ler  of  Dean  Swift's  Style. 
He  is  elleenred  one  of  our   mod  correal   writers.     His  Style 
is  of  the  plain  and  fimple  kind  ;  free  from  all  affcdation,  and  all 
fuperfluity  j  perfpicuous,  manly,  and  pur.e.     Thefe  are  its  ad- 
vantages 


Lect.  XX[V.     critical  EXAMINATION;  &c.         337 

vantages.  But  we  are  not  to  look  for  much  ornament  and 
grace  in  it.*  On  the  contrary.  Dean  Swift  feems  to  have 
flighted  and  defpifed  the  ornaments  of  Language,  rather  than 
to  have  ftudied  them.  His  arrangement  is  often  loofe  and 
negHgent.  In  elegant,  mufical,  and  figurative  Language,  he 
is  much  inferior  to  Mr.  Addifon.  His  manner  of  writing  car- 
ries in  it  the  character  of  one  who  refts  altogether  upon  Izis 
fenfe,  and  aims  at  no  more  than  giving  his  meaning  in  a  char 
and  concife  manner. 

That  part  of  his  writings,  which  I  Ihall  now  examine,  is  the 
beginning  of  his  treatifc,  entitled,  "  A  Propofal  for  corretling, 
*'  improving,  and  afcertaining  the  English  Tongue,"  in  a  Let- 
ter addrcffed  to  the   Earl  of  Oxford,   then  Lord  High  Treaf- 
urer.     I  was  led,  by  the  nature  of  the  fubjc£t,   to  choofs  this 
treatife  ;  but,  in  juftice  to  the  Dean,  I  muft  obferve,  that,  af- 
ter having  examined  it,  I  do  not  efteem  it  one  of  his  moft  cor- 
recl  produGions  j  but  am  apt  to  think  it  has  been  more  haflily 
compofcd  than  fome  other  of  them.     It  bears  a  title  and  form 
of  a  Letter  ;  but  it  is,  however,  in  truth,  a  Treatife  defigned 
for  the  public  :  and   therefore,  in  examining  it,  we  cannot 
proceed  upon  the  indulgence  due  to  an  epiftolary  corrcfpoii- 
dence.      When  a  man  addrefles  himfelf  to  a  friend  only,  it  is 
fufficieut  if  he  makes  himfelf  fully  underftood   by  him  ;  but 
when  an   Author  writes  for  the  public,  whether  he  afTume  the 
form  of  an  epillle  or  not,  we  are  always  entitled  to  expe6t,  that 
he  fhall  exprefs  himfelf  with  accuracy  and  care.     Our  Author 
begins  thus  : 

"  What  I  had  the  honour  of  mentioning  to  your  lordHiip, 

**  foms  time  ago,  in  converfation,  was  not  a  new  thought,  jufl 

"  then  darted   by  accident  or  occafion,   but  the  refult  of  long 

*'  reilectlon  ;  and  I  h.ive  been  confirmed  in  my  fentiments  by 

*'  the  opinion  of  fome  very  judicious  perfons   with  whom  I 

«♦  confultcd." 

U  u  The 

*  I  am  gUd  to  find  that,  in  my  judgment  concerning  this  Author's  compoli- 
*'  tion,  I  have  coincided  with  the  opinion  of  a  very  able  critic  •  "  This  eafy 
"  and  fafe  convcyAncc  of  meaning,  it  was  Swift's  defire  to  attain,  and  for  h,iv- 
"  ing  attained,  he  certainly  dcfcrves  pruife,  tliough,  perhaps,  not  the  liighcfl 
«'  praife.  For  purpofes  merely  dida^ftic,  when  ibmcthing  is  to  be  told  that 
•*  was  not  known  l^efore,  it  is  in  the  higheft  degree  proper  :  but  againfl  that 
♦'  inattention  by  which  known  trut!.:s  are  fufTcred  to  be  ncgledled,  it  makrs  no 
'«  provifion ;  it  inflruds,  but  docs  not  pcrlUade."  Johalbn's  Lives  of  th« 
I'oets  ;  ia  tiwift, 


338  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION      Lect.XXIV. 

The  dlfpofition  of  circumftances  in  a  fcntcnce,  fuch  as  fervc 
to.  limit  or  to  qualify  fome  alTertion,  or  to  denote  time  and 
place,  I  formerly  ftiewed  to  be  a  matter  of  nicety  j  and  I  ob- 
ferved,  that  it  ought  to  be  always  held  a  rule,  not  to  crowd  fuch 
circumftances  together,  but  rather  to  intermix  them  with  more 
capital  words,  in  fuch  different  parts  of  the  fentence  as  can 
admit  them  naturally.  Here  are  two  circumftances  of  this 
kind  placed  together,  which  had  better  have  been  feparated  ; 
Some  time  ago,  in  converfatioi — better  thus  :  What  I  had  the  hon- 
eui'i  fometime  ago,  of  ment'wtnng  to  your  Lorci/hlp  in  couverfatiori—^ 
was  not  a  nenvthoughty  proceeds  our  Author,  Jinrted  by  accident 
or  cccafion  :  the  different  meaning  of  thefe  two  words  may  not, 
at  firft,  occur.  They  have,  however,  a  diftindl  meaning,  and 
arc  properly  ufed  :  for  it  is  one  very  laudable  property  of  our 
Author's  Style,  that  it  is  feldom  incumbered  with  fuperfluous, 
fynonimous  words.  Started  by  accident^  is,  fortuitoufly,  or  at 
random  j  ftarted  by  occajion,  is  by  fome  incident,  which  at  that 
time  gave  birth  to  it.  His  meaning  is,  that  it  was  not  a  new- 
thought  which  either  cafually  fprung  up  in  his  mind,  or  was 
fuggefted  to  him,  for  the  firft  time,  by  the  tra,'n  of  the  difcourfe : 
but,  as  he  adds,  ivns  the  refidt  of  long  reflection.     He  proceeds  ; 

**  They  all  agreed,  that  nothing  would  be  of  greater  ufe  to- 
**  wardsthe  Improvement  of  ^.-nowledge  and  politenefs,  than  fome 
**  effe£tuai  method  for  correcting,  enlarging,  and  afcertaining 
"  our  Language  ;  and  they  think  it  a  work  very  poffible  to  be 
*'  compaffed  under  the  protection  of  a  prince,  the  countenance 
"  and  encouragement  of  a  miniftry,  and  the  care  of  proper  per- 
**  fons  chofen  for  fuch  an  undertaking. 

This  is  an  excellent  fentence  ;  clear,  and  elegant.  The 
words  are  all  fimple,  well  chofen,  andexpreffive  ;  andai-e  arrang- 
ed in  the  moft  proper  order.  It  is  a  harmonious  period  too, 
which  is  a  beauty  net  frequent  in  our  Author.  The  laft  part 
of  it  confifts  of  three  members  which  gradually  rife  and  fwell 
above  one  another,  without  any  affected  or  unfuitable  pomp  ; 
under  the  pretention  of  a  prince,  the  countenance  and  encouragement  of 
a  miniftry,  and  the  care  of  proper  perfons  chofen  for  fuch  an  undertah- 
ing.  We  may  remark,  in  the  beginning  of  the  fentence,  the 
ptoper  ufe  of  the  prepofition  towards — greater  ufe  towards  the 

improvement 


Lect.XXIV.      of  dean  SWIFFs  STYLE.  339 

improvement  of  hnoivledge  and politenefs — Importing  tlie  pointing 
or  tendency  of  any  tiling  to  a  certain  end  ;  which  could  not 
have  been  fo  well  exprefied  .by  the  prepofition  /a**,  commonly 
employed  in  place  of  ioivanls,  by  Authors  who  are  lefs  atten- 
tive, than  Dean  Swift  was,  to  the  force  of  words. 

One  fault  might,  perhaps,  be  found,  both  with  this  and  the 
farmer  fentence,  confidered  as  introdu£lory  ones.  We  cx- 
ped,  that  an  introdudion  is  to  unfold,  clearly  and  dire£lly, 
the  fubje(£l  that  is  to  be  treated  of.  In  the  firft  fentence,  our 
Author  had  told  us,  of  a  thought  he  mentioned  to  his  Lord- 
(hip  in  converfation,  which  had  been  the  refult  of  long  reflec- 
tion, and  concerning  which  he  had  confulted  judicious  perfons. 
But  what  that  thought  was,  we  are  never  told  direftly.  We 
gather  it  indeed  from  the  fecond  fentence,  wherein  he  informs 
us,  in  what  thefe  judicious  perfons  agreed  ;  namely,  that  fome 
method  for  improving  the  language  was  both  ufeful  and*  pra6\i- 
cable.  But  this  indirc6l  method  of  opening  the  fubjefl,  would 
have  been  very  faulty  in  a  regular  treatifc  ;  though  the  eafe  of 
the  epillolary  form,  which  our  Author  here  afllimes  in  addrefl^ 
ing  his  patron,  may  excufe  it  in  the  prefent  cafe.  ' 

"  I  was  glad  to  find  your  Lordfliip's  anfwer  in  fo  different  a 
**  flyle  from  what  hath  commonly  been  made  ufe  of,  on  the 
*'  like  occafions,  for  fome  years  pafl: ;  That  aJlfuch  thoughts  mujl 
•'  he  deferred  to  a  time  of  peace  ;  a  topic  which  fome  have  carried 
*'  fo  far,  that  they  would  not  have  us,  by  any  means,  think  of 
*'  preferring  our  civil  and  religious  confiitution,  becaufe  we  are 
**  engaged  in  a  war  abroad.'* 

This  fentence  alfo  is  clear  and  elegant ;  only  there  Is  one  inac- 
curacy, when  he  fpeaks  of  his  Lordfliip's  at  fiver  being  info  dif- 
ferent a  flyle  from  what  had  formerly  been  ufed.  His  atfiver 
to  what  ?  or  to  whom  ?  For  from  any  thing  going  before,  it  does 
not  appear  that  any  application  or  addrefs  had  been  made  to  his 
Lordfhip  by  thofe  perfons,  whofe  opinion  was  mentioned  in 
the  preceding  fentence  ;  and  to  whom  the  anfwer,  here  fpoken 
of,  naturally  refers.  There  is  a  little  indi(lin£l.nefs,  as  I  be- 
fore obferved,  in  our  Author's  manner  of  introducing  his  fubje£l 
here.  We  may  obferve  too,  that  the  phrafe,  glad  to  find  your 
anfwer  in  fo  different  a  fyle^  though  abundantly  fuited   to   the 

language 


340  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION       Lect.  ZtXIV. 

language  of  converfatlon,  or  of  a  familiar  letter,  yet,  in  regular 
compofition,  requires  an  additional  yioxu-r—glad  to  jiud  yoi4r 
atifiuer  run  in  fo  different  ajfyfe. 

"  It  will  be  among  the  diftinguifhing  marks  of  your  mlnif- 
*'  try,  my  Lord,  that  you  have  a  genius  above  all  fuch  regards, 
*'  and  that  no  reafonable  propofal,  for  the  honour,  the  advan» 
*'  tage,  or  ornament  of  your  country,  however  foreign  to  yctir 
*'  immediate  office,  was  ever  negledled  by  you." 

The  phrafe,  a  ge/iius  above  all  fuch  regards,  both  feems 
fomewhat  harfh,  and  does  not  clearly  exprefs  what  the  Author 
means,  namely,  the  conjiued  vieius  of  thofe  who  negle£led  every- 
thing that  belonged  to  the  arts  of  peace  in  the  time  of  war^ 
Bating  this  exprefiion,  there  i*  nothing  that  cm\  be  fubjetl  to 
the  leaft  reprehennon  in  this  fentence,  nor  in  all  that  fol- 
lows, to  the  end  of  the  paragraph;. 

*'  I  confefs,  the  merit  of  this  candour  and  condefcenfion  is 
''  very  much  leiTened,  becaufe  your  Lordlhip  hardly  leaves  us. 
«•  room  to  offer  our  good  wiflies ;  removing  all  our  difEculties, 
•''  ana  fupplying  our  wants,  faller  than  the  mofl  vifjonary  pro- 
*'  jeiSlov  can  adjuft  his  fchemes.  And  therefore,  my  Lord,  the 
*'  deiign  of  this  paper  is  not  fo  much  to  offer  you  ways  and, 
'*  means,  as  to  com.plain  of  a  grievance,  the  redreffuigof  which 
^'  is  to  be  your  own  work,  as  much  as  that  of  paying  the  na- 
**  tion's  debts,  or  opening  a  trade  into  the  South  Sea ;  and, 
*'  though  not  of  fuch  immediate  benefit  as  either  of  thtfe,  or 
•'  any  other  of  your  glorious  actions,  yet,  perhaps,  in  future 
''•'  ages  not  lefs  to  your  honour." 

The  compliments  which  the  Dean  here  pays  to  his  patron^, 
2re  very  high  and  ftrained  \  and  flnow,  that,  with  all  his  furlir 
nefs,  he  was  as  capable,  on  fome  occafions,  of  making  his  court 
to  a  great  man  by  flattery,  as  other  writers.  However,  with 
i-efpe£l  to  the  Style,  which  is  the  fole  objec^l  of  our  prefent 
confederation,  every  thing  here,  as  far  as  appears  to  me,  is  fault- 
Icfs.  In  thefe  (entences,  and,  indeed,  throughout  this  para/- 
graph,  in  generalj  which  we  have  now  ended,  our  Author's 
Style  appears  to  great  advantage.  We  fee  that  eafe  and  fim.,- 
plicity,  that  corrednefs  and  di:fti.n<^nefs,  which  pavticubrly 

charaflerife 


Lect.  XXIV.      OF  DEAN  SWIFT's  STYLE.  341: 

charafterife  it.  It  is  very  remarkable,  how  few  Latinifed  words 
Dean  Swift  employs.  No  writer,  in  cur  language,  is  fo  pure- 
ly Englifh  as  he  is,  or  borrows  fo  little  afliftance  from  words. 
of  foreign  derivation.  From  none  can  we  take  a  better  model 
of  the  choice  and  proper  fignificancy  of  words.  It  is  remarka- 
ble, in  the  fentences  we  have  now  before  us,  how  plain  all 
the  CKpreflions  are,  and  yet,  a,t  the  fame  time,  how  fignificant ; 
and,  in  tiie  midft  of  that  high  flrain  of  compliment  into  which 
he  rifes,  how  little  there  is  of  pomp,  or  glare  of  expreffion. 
How  very  few  writers  can  preferve  this  manly  temperance  of 
Style ;  or  M'ould  think  a  compliment  of  this  nature  fupported 
with  fuffieient  dignity,  unlefs  they  had  embeliifned  it  with 
fome  of  thofe  high-founding  words,  whofe  chief  effeft  is  no 
other  than  to  give  their  language  a  ftiff  and  forced  appearance  ? 

**  My  Lord,  I  do  here,  in  the  name  of  all  the  learned  and 
**  polite  jicrfons  of  the  nation,  complain  to  your  Lordfnip,  as 
*'  firit  miniftcr,  that  our  language  is  impcrfe£l ;  that  its  dai- 
*'  ly  improvements  are  by  no  means  in  proportion  to  its  daily 
*'  corruptions  3  that  the  pretenders  to  polifii  and  refine  it,  hzve 
''^  chiefly  multiplied  abufes  and  abfurdities  ;  and  that,  in  many 
'*  inftances,  it  offends  againft  every  part  of  grammar." 

The  turn  of  this  fentence  is  extremely  elegant.  He  had 
fpoken  before  of  a  grievance  for  which  he  fought  redrefs,  and 
he  carries  on  the  allufion,  by  entering,  here,  dire£lly  oti  his 
fubjedl,  in  the  Style  of  a  public  reprefentation  prefented  to  the 
minifler  of  (late.  One  im perfection,  however,  there  is  in  this 
fentence,  which,  luckily  for  our  purpofe,  ferves  to  illuftrate 
-1  rule  before  given,  concerning  the  pontion  of  adverbs,  fo  as 
to  avoid  ambiguity.  It  is  in  the  middle  of  the  fentence ;  tkat 
the  pretenders  to  poIiJJj  and  refine  itj  kflve  chiefly  multiplied  ubufes 
and  ahfurdities.  Now,  concerning  the  import  of  this  adverb, 
chiefly^  I  afic,  whether  it  fignifies  tliat  thefe  pretenders  to  pol- 
ifh  the  Language,  have  been  the  chief  pcrfons  who  have  multi- 
plied its  abufes,  in  diiWr^Ciion  from  others  ;  or,  that  the  chief  thing 
which  thefe  pretenders  have  done,  is  to  multiply  the  abufes  of 
our  Language,  in  oppofition  to  their  doing  any  ihin<^  to  refuc  it  ? 
Thefe  two  meanings  are  really  different ;  and  yet,  by  the  ^wfi- 
tion  v.'hich  the  word  chiefly  has  in  the  fentence,  we  are  left  at 

a  lofs 


34i  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION      Lect.  XXIV, 

a  lofs  In  which  to  undcrftand  it.  The  confbruftlon  would 
lead  us  i-ather  to  the  latter  fenfe  ;  that  the  chief  thing  which 
thefe  pretenders  have  done,  is  to  multiply  the  nbufes  of  our 
Language.  But  it  is  more  than  probable,  that  the  former  fenfe 
was  what  the  Dean  intended,  as  it  carries  more  of  his  ufual 
fatirical  edge  -,  "  that  the  pretended  refiners  of  our  Language, 
"  were,  in  fa£V,  its  cliicf  corrupters  •,"  on  which  fuppc«(ition, 
his  words  ought  to  have  run  thus :  that  the  pretenders  to  poIiJJj 
find  refine  it,  have  been  the  chief  perfons  to  multiply  its  nbufes  a)id  ab- 
Jurdities  ;  which  would  have  rendered  the  fenfe  pcrfedlly  clear. 
Perhaps,  too,  tliere  might  be  ground  for  obferving  farther 
upon  this  fenTence,  that  as  Language  is  the  objedl  with  which 
It  fets  out  ;  thfit  our  Langitnge  is  extremely  imperfeEl ;  and  as  there 
follows  an  enumeration  concerning  Language,  in  three  partic- 
ulars, it  had  been  better  if  Language  had  been  kept  the  ruling 
wordj  or  the  nominative  to  every  verb,  without  changing  the 
Icene  ;  by  making />;r/'r;;^i'rj-  the  ruling  word,  as  is  done  in  the  fee- 
end  member  of  the  crtumeration,  and  then,  in  the  third,  return- 
ing again  to  the  former  word,  Language — That  the  pretenders  t» 
poliflj — tind  ihaty  in  many  inflnnees^  it  offends— -I  am  perfuaded, 
that  the  flru6lure  of  the  fentcnce  would  have  been  more  neat 
and  happy,  and  its  unity  more  complete,  if  the  members  of  it 
had  been  arranged  thus:  **That  our  Language  is  extremely 
"  imperfect ;  that  its  daily  improvements  are  by  no  means  in 
"proportion  to  its  daily  corruptions  :  that,  in  many  inftances, 
''"'  it  offends  againft  every  part  of  grammar  ;  and  that  the  pre- 
*'  tenders  to  poli{h  and  refine  it,  have  been  the  chief  perfons  to 
"  multiply  its  abufes  and  abfurdities."  This  degree  of  atten- 
tion feemed  proper  to  be  beftowed  in  fuch  a  fentenee  as  this, 
in  order  to  Ihow  how  it  might  have  been  conducted  after  the 
mofl  perfeft  manner.     Our  author,  after  having  faid, 

*'  Left  your  Lordihip  fiiould  think  my  cenfure  too  fevere,>I 
**  fhall  take  leave  to  be  more  particular  -,"  proceeds  in  the  fol- 
lowing paragraph: 

"  I  believe  your  Lordfliip  will  agr^e  with  me,  in  the  reafon 
**  why  our  Language  is  lefs  refined  than  thofe  of  Italy,  Spain,  or 
"France."  ' 

I  am 


Lect.XXIV.      of  dean  SWIFT's  STYLE.  345 

I  am  forry  to  fay,  that  now  \vc  fiiall  ]>avc  lefs  to  commend 
in  our  Author.  For  the  whole  of  this  par,igraph,  on  which 
we  are  entering,  is,  in  truth,  perplexed  and  inaccurate.  Even 
in  this  {hort  fcntence,  we  may  difcern  an  inaccuracy — %vhy 
our  Language  is  lefs  refined  than  thofe  of  JtaU;^  Spni/iy  and 
France ;  putting  the  pronoun  tbcfe  in  the  plural,  when  th6 
antecedent  fubdantive  to  which  it  refers  is  in  the  fingular,  our 
Language.  Inftances  of  this  kind  may  foaietlmes  be  found  in 
Enghlli  authors  ;  but  they  found  harfn  to  the  ear,  and  are 
certainly  contrary  to  the  purity  of  grammar.  By  a  very  little 
attention,  this  inaccuracy  could  have  been  remedied  ;  and  the 
fentence  have  been  made  to  run  much  better  in  this  way  ; 
"  why  our  Language  is  lefs  refined  than  the  Italian,  Spaniih. 
*'  or  French." 

"  It  is  plain,  that  the  Latin  Tongue,  In  its  purity,  was  never 
*'  In  this  ifland  ;  towards  the  conqueft  of  which,  few  or  no 
"  attempts  were  made  till  the  time  of  Claudius  ;  neither  was 
*'  that  Language  ever  fo  vulgar  in  Britain,  as  it  is  known  to 
"  have  been  in  Gaul  and  Spain." 

To  fay,  that  the  Latin  Tonguey  in  its  purii'j^  ivas  vever  in  this 
i/landf  is  very  carelcfs  Style  ;  it  ought  to  have  been,  was  /:ever 
fpoken  in  this  ifland.  In  tlie  progrefs  of  the  fentence,  he  means 
to  give  a  reafon  why  the  Latin  was  never  fpoken  in  its  purity 
amongft  us,  becaufe  our  Ifiand  v/as  not  conquered  by  tlie  Ro- 
mans till  after  the  purity  of  their  Tongue  beguii  to  decline. 
But  this  reafon  ought  to  have  been  brought  out  more  clearlv. 
This  might  eafdy  have  been  done,  and  the  relation  of  the  fevcr- 
rd  parts  of  the  fentence  to  each  other  much  better  pointed  out 
by  means  of  a  fmall  variation  j  thus  :  "  It  is  plain,  that  the 
**  Latin  Tongue,  In  Its  purity,  was  never  fpoken  in  this  ifland, 
"  as  few  or  no  attempts  towards  the  conquelt  of  it  were  made 
**  tin  the  time  of  Claudius."  lie  adds,  neither  luns  the  Lan- 
guage ever  fo  vulgar  in  Britain.  Vulgar  was^one  of  the  worft 
words  he  could  have  chofen  for  expreffing  what  he  means  here  : 
namely,  that  the  Latin  Tongue  was  at  no  time  fo  generaly  or 
fo  much  in  common  vfe^  in  Britain,  as  it  is  known  to  have  been 
in  Gaul  and  Spain.  Vulgar^  wlien  applied  to  Language, 
commonly  fignl^es  impure,  or  debafed  Language,  fueh  as  is 

fpoken 


344  CRIllCAL  EXAMINATION      Lect.XXIV. 

ipoken  by  the  low  people,  which  is  quite  oppofite  to  the  Au- 
thor's fenle  here  j  for,  in  place  of  meaning  to  fay,  that  die  Latin 
fpoken  in  Britain  was  not  fo  debafed,  as  what  was  fpoken  in 
Gaul  and  Spain  j  he  means  juO:  the  contrary,  and  had  been 
telling  us,  that  we  never  v/ere  acquainted  with  the  Latin  at  all, 
till  its  purity  begun  to  be  corrupt"d. 

"  Further,  we  find  that  the  Roman  legions  here  were  at 
"  length  all  rec.iUed  to  help  their  country  againfl  the  Goths, 
"  and  other  barbarous  invaders." 

The  chief  fcope  of  this  fentencc  is,  to  give  a  reafoa  why 
the  Latin  Tongue  did  not  ftrike  any  deep  root  in  this  ifland, 
on  account  of  the  {hort  continuance  of  the  Romans  in  it. 
He  goes  on  : 

"  Meantime  the  Britons,  left  to  (hift  for  themfelves,  and  daily 
*'  harafled  by  cruel  inroads  from  the  Pi£ls,  were  forced  to  call 
"  in  the  Saxons  for  their  defence  ;  who,  confequently,  reduc- 
*'  ed  the  grcateffc  part  of  the  ifland  to  their  own  power,  drove 
"  the  Britons  into  the  mofl  remote  and  mountainous  parts,  and  . 
"  the  reft  of  the  country,  in  cuftoms,  religion,  and  language, 
*'  become  wholly  Saxon." 

This  is  a  very  exceptionable  fentcnce.     Firfl,  the  phrafe  /eft 
to  Jhift  for  themfcheSi  is  rather  a  low  phrafe,  and  too  much  in 
tlie  familiar  Style  to  be  proper  in  a  grave  treatife.     Next,  as  the 
fentence  advances— ^/ifr^ii  to  call  in  the  Saxons  Jor  their  defcncey 
ijuho,  confequently,   reduced  the   greatefi  part  of  the  ifland  to  their 
cvun  power.     What  is  the  meaning  of  confequently  here  ?  if  it 
means  "  aftcrwavus,"  or,  "  in  progrefs  of  time,"  this,  certainly, 
is  not  a  fenfe  in  which  confequently  is  often  taken  ;   and  there- 
fore the  expreflion  is  chargeable  with  obfcurity.     The  adverb, 
confequently,  In  its  mod  common  acceptation,  denotes  one  thing 
following  from  another,  as  an  eiFedl  from  a  caufe.     If  he  ufes 
it  in  this  fenfe,   and  means  that  the  Britons  being  fubdued  by 
the  Saxons,  was  a  neceflary  confequence  of  their  having  called 
in  thefe  Saxons  to  their  afliftance,   this  confequence  is  drawn 
too  abruptly,  and  needed  more  explanation.     For  though  it 
has  oftei;  happened,  that   nations  have  been  fubdued  by  their 
own  auxiliaries,  yet  this  is  not  a  confequence  of  fuch  a  nature 
that  it  can  be  aiTumed,  as  feems  here  to  be  dene,  for  a  firfl 

and 


Lect.XXIV.      of  dean  SWIFPs  STYLE.  345 

and  felf-evldent  principle.  But  further,  what  (hall  we  fay  to 
this  phrafe,  reduced  the  greatejl  part  of.  the  ijland  to  their  own 
power  ?  we  fay  reduce  to  rule,  reduce  to  praBlce  ,-  we  can  fay, 
that  one  nation  reduces  another  to  fuhjeclion.  But  when  dominion 
or  power  is  ufed,  we  always,  as  far  as  I  know,  fay,  reduce  under 
iheir  poxver.  Reduce  to  their  power,  is  (o  harlh  and  uncommon 
an  cxprefTion,  that,  though  Dean  Swift's  authority  in  language 
be  very  great,  yet  in  the  ufe  of  this  phrafe,  I  am  of  opinion, 
that  it  would  not  be  fife  to  follow  his  example. 

Befides  the  particular  inaccuracies,  this  fentence  is  chargeable 
with  want  of  unity  in  the  compofition  of  the  whole.  The 
perfons  and  the  fcene  are  too  often  changed  upon  us.  Firfl:, 
the  Britons  are  mentioned,  who  are  haraffed  by  inroads  from 
the  Pi6ts  :  next,  the  Saxons  appear,  who  fubdue  the  greatcfh 
part  of  the  ifland,  and  drive  the  Britons  into  the  mountains; 
and,  lallly,  the  red  of  the  country  is  introduced,  and  a  de- 
fcription  given  of  the  change  made  upon  it.  All  this  forms  a 
group  of  various  objects,  prefented  in  fuch  quick  fuccefilon, 
that  the  mind  finds  it  difficult  to  comprehend  them  under  one 
view.  Accordingly,  it  is  quoted  in  the  Elements  of  Criticifm^ 
as  an  inftance  of  a  fentence  rendered  faulty  by  the  breach  of 
unity. 

"  This  I  take  to  be  the  reafon  why  there  are  more  Latin 
"  words  remaining  in  the  Britifli  than  the  old  Saxon  ;  which, 
*'  excepting  fome  few  variations  in  the  orthography,  is  the 
*'  fame  in  mod  original  words  with  our  prefent  Englifli,  as 
**  well  as  with  the  German  and  other   northern   dialedls." 

This  fentence  is  faulty,  fomewhat  in  the  fame  manner  with 
the  lad.  It  is  loofc  in  the  connexion  of  its  parts ;  and,  bo- 
fides  this,  it  is  alfo  too  loofely  connecled  v/ith  the  preceding 
fentence.  What  he  had  there  faid,  concerning  the  Saxons  ex- 
pelling the  Britons,  and  changing  the  cuftoms,  the  religion, 
and  the  language  of  the  country,  is  a  clear  and  good  reafon. 
for  our  prefent  language  being  Saxon  rather  than  Britifli. 
This  is  the  inference  which  we  would  naturally  expe£l  him 
to  draw  from  the  premifcs  juft  before  laid  down  :  But  when 
he  tells  us,  that  this  is  the  reafon  why  there  are  more  Latin  words 
rem  nning  in  the  Britiflo  tongue  than  in  the  old  Saxon^  we  are  pref- 

W  w  ently 


346  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION        Lect.XXIV. 

ently  at  a  ftand.  No  rcafon  for  this  inference  appears.  If  it 
can  be  gathered  at  all  from  the  foregoing  dedmflion,  it  is 
gathered  only  imperfeclly.  For,  as  he  had  told  us,  that  the 
Britons  hzA  fome  connexion  with  the  Romans,  he  fliould  have 
alfo  told  us,  in  order  to  make  out  his  inference,  t^at  the  Sax* 
ons  never  had  atiy.  The  truth  is,  the  whole  of  this  paragraph 
concerning  the  influence  of  the  Latin  tongue  upon  ours,  is 
carelefs,  perplexed,  and  obfcure.  His  argument  required  to 
have  been  more  fully  unfolded,  in  order  to  make  it  be  diftin£l- 
]^  apprehended,  and  to  give  it  its  due  force.  In  the  next  par- 
agraph, he  proceeds  to  difcourfe  concerning  the  influence  of 
the  French  tongue  upon  our  language.  The  Style  becomes 
more  clear,  though  not  remarkable  for  great  beauty  or  elegance. 

**  Edward  the  Con feffor  having  lived  long  in  France,  ap- 
'*  pears  to  have  been  the  firfl  who  introduced  any  mixture  of 
"  the  French  tongue  with  the  Saxon  ;  the  court  affecting  what 
*'  the  Prince  was  fond  of,  and  others  taking  it  up  for  a  fafh- 
'*  ion,  as  it  is  now  with  us.  William  the  Conqueror  proceeded 
"much  furtlier,  bringing  over  v.'ith  him  vaft  numbers  of  that 
**  nation,  fcattering  them  in  every  monaitery,  giving  them  great 
**  quantities  of  land,  directing  all  pleadings  to  be  in  that  Ian- 
**  guage,  and  endeavouring  to  make  it  univerfal  in  the  kingdom." 

On  thefe  two  fentences,  I  have  nothing  of  moment  to  ob- 
ferve.  The  fenfe  is  brought  out  clearly,  and  in  fimple  unaf- 
fected language. 

*'  This,  at  leaft,  is  the  opinion  generally  received ;  but  your 
<*Lordfiiip  hath  fully  convinced  me,  that  the  French  tongue 
**  made  yet  a  greater  progrefs  here  under  Harry  the  Second, 
*'  who  had  large  territories  on  that  continent  both  from  his  fath- 
**  er  and  his  wife  ;  made  frequent  journeys  and  expeditions 
<'  thither ;  and  was  always  attended  with  a  number  of  his 
•'countrymen,  retainers  at  court." 

In  the  begiiming  of  this  fentence,  our  Author  ftates  an  op- 
pofition  between  an  opinion  generally  received,  and  that  of 
Ivis  Lordfliip  ;  and  in  compliment  to  his  patron,  he  tells  us, 
that  his  Lordfliip  had  convinced  him  of  ibmewhat  that  differed 
from  the  general  opinion.  Thus  one  mull  naturally  under- 
ftand  his  Vrerds  :  27;/j-,  at  leaft,  is  the  o^>inian  generally  received  j 


1^ 


Lect.  XXIV.      OF  DEAN  SWIFT's  STYLE.  347 

but  your  Lonlpiip  hath  fully  convinced  mc — Now  here  there  muft 
be  an  inaccuracy  of  expreflion.  For  on  examining  what  went 
before,  there  appears  no  fort  of  oppofition  betwixt  the  gener- 
ally received  opinion,  and  that  of  the  Author's  patron.  The 
general  opinion  was,  that  William  the  Conqueror  had  pro- 
ceeded much  farther  than  Edward  the  ConfefTor,  in  propa-. 
gating  the  French  language,  and  had  endeavoured  to  make  it 
univerfal.  Lord  ONford's  opinion  was,  that  the  French  tongue 
had  gone  on  to  make  a  yet  greater  progrefs  under  Harry  the 
Second,  than  it  had  done  under  his  predeceffor  William  :  which 
two  opinions  are  as  entirely  confiftent  with  one  another,  as 
any  can  be;  and  therefore  the  oppofition  here  affcded  to  be 
ftated  between  them,  by  the  adveriative  particle  huty  was  im- 
proper and  groundlefs. 

"  For  fome  centuries  after,  there  was  a  conftant  intercourfe 
**  between  France  and  England  by  the  dominions  we  pofTefled 
"  there,  and  the  conquefts  v/e  made ;  fo  that  our  language, 
**  between  two  and  three  hundred  years  ago,  feems  to  have 
*'  had  a  greater  mixture  with  French  than  at  prefent ;  many 
"  words  having  been  afterwards  i*eje(Q:ed,  and  fome  fince  the 
"  days  of  Spenfer  ;  although  we  have  flill  retained  not  a  few, 
*'  which  have  been  long  antiquated  in  France," 

This  is  a  fentence  too  long  and  intricate,  and  liable  to  the 
fameobjedlion  that  was  made  to  a  former  one,  ofthe  want  of  unity. 
It  confiiis  of  four  members,  each  divided  from  the  fubfequent 
by  a  femicolon.  In  going  along,  we  naturally  expect  the  fen- 
tence is  to  end  at  the  fccond  of  thcfe,  or  at  fartheft,  at  the 
third  ;  when  to  our  furprife,  a  new  member  pops  out  upon  us, 
and  fatigues  our  attv=;ntion  in  joining  all  the  parts  together. 
Such  a  (trudiure  of  a  fentence  is  always  the  mark  of  carelefs 
writing.  In  the  ftrft  member  of  the  fentence,  a  cofTjlant  inter- 
courfe  bctiveen  France  and  Engl  and ^  by  the  dominions  ivc  poffc/Tcd 
there^  and  the  conqihjls  ive  madcj  the  confhrudlion  is  not  fuffi- 
ciently  filled  up.  In  place  of  intercourfe  by  the  dominions  we. 
pojfjfdi  it  fliould  have  been — by  renfon  ofthe  dominions  ive  pof- 
fjj'ed — ox—rroccnfioued  by  the  dominions  ive poffefj'ed — and  in  place 
oi-'—the  dominions  ive  pofj'effed  there^  and  the  conquefts  ive  madey 
the  regular  Style  is — the  dominions  ivhich  ive  pcjfcjfed  there^  and 
the  conqmfs   ivhich  ivc  made.     The  relative  pronoun  ivhich,  is 

indeed 


348  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION      Lect.  XXIV. 

indeed  in  phrafcs  of  this  kind  fometimcs  omitted  :  But,  when 
it  is  omitted,  the  Style  becomes  elliptic  -,  and  though  in  con- 
verfation,  or  in  the  very  light  and  eafy  kinds  of  writing,  fuch 
elliptic  Style  may  not  be  improper,  yet  in  grave  and  regular 
writing,  it  is  better  to  fill  up  the  conflrudlion,  and  infert  the 
relative  pronoun.  After  having  faid,  I  could  produce  fever al  in - 
Jlaficcs  of  both  kinds,  if  it  ivere  of  any  ufe  or  eritertaitivientj  our 
Author  beguis  the  next  paragraph  thus  : 

"  To  examine  into  the  feveral  clrcumftances  by  which  the 
*'  language  of  a  country  may  be  altered,  would  force  me  to  en- 
*'  ter  into  a  wude  field." 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  in  this  fentence,  unlefs  that 
here  occurs  the  firft  inftance  of  a  metaphor  fince  the  begin- 
ning of  this  treatife  ;  entering  into  a  luide  field.,  being  put  for 
beginning  an  extenfive  fubjedl.  Few  writers  de:;l  lefs  in  fig- 
urative language  than  Swift.  I  before  obferved,  that  he  ap- 
pears to  defpife  ornaments  of  this  kind  ;  and  though  this  ren- 
ders his  Style  fomewhat  dry  on  ferious  fubje£ls,  yet  his  plain- 
nefs  and  fimplicity,  I  mufl:  not  forbear  to  remind  my  readers, 
is  far  preferable  to  an  oflentatlous  and  afFecSled  parade  of  or- 
nam.ent. 

"  I  fhall  only  obferve,  that  the  Latin,  the  French,  and  the 
•*  Englifh  feem  to  have  undergone  the  fitme  fortune.  The 
**  firft  from  the  days  of  Romulus,  to  thofe  of  Julius  Ca^far,  fuf- 
"  fered  by  perpetual  changes  ;  and  Hy  what  we  meet  in  thofe 
"  Authors  who  occaGonally  fpeak  on  that  fubjefl:,  as  well  as 
*'  from  certain  frr.gments  of  old  laws,  it  is  manifeft  that  the 
**  Latin,  three  hundred  years  before  Tully,  was  as  unintelligi- 
**ble  in  his  time,  as  the  French  nnd  Englifh  of  tiie  fame  peri- 
**  od  are  now  ;  and  thcfe  two  have  changed  as  much  fince 
"'  William  the  Conqueror,  (which  is  but  little  lefs  than  700 
*' years)  as    the  Latin  appears  to  have  done  in  the  like  teim." 

The  Dean  plainly  appears  to  be  wilting  negligently  here. 
This  fentence  is  one  of  that  involved  and  intricate  kind,  of 
which  fome  inftances  have  occurred  before  ;  but  none  worfe 
than  this.  It  requires  a  very  diflind  head  to  comprehend  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  period  at  firft  reading.  In  one  part  of 
it  wc  find  extreme  careleflhefs  of  cxprefTion.  He  fays.  It  is 
inanifejl  that  the  Latin,  300  years  before  Tulh^  ivas  as  umfitelligi- 

hie 


Lect.  XXIV.      OF  DEAN  SWlFT's  STYLE.  349 

ble  in  his  time,  as  the  Englijh  and  French  of  the  fame  period  are  nciv. 
By  the  EnglHh  and  French  of  the  fame  period,  mufl  naturally  be 
undenlood,  the  Etiglifh  and  French  that  iverefpohen  three  hundred 
years  before  Tully.  This  is  the  only  grammatical  meaning  his 
words  will  bear;  and  yet  afluredly  what  he  means,  and  what 
it  would  have  been  eafy  for  him  to  liave  cxpreflcd  with  more 
precifion,  is,  the  EnglifJ}  and  French  that  were  fpokett  300  years 
ago  ;  or  at  a  period  equally  diRant  from  our  age,  as  the  old 
Latin,  which  he  had  mentioned,  was  from  the  age  of  Tully. 
But  when  an  author  writes  haftily,  and  does  not  review  with 
proper  care  v/hat  he  has  written,  many  fuch  inaccuracies  will 
be  apt  to  creep  into  his  Style. 

"  Whether  our  Language  or  the  French  will  decline  as  fad 
*'  as  the  Roman  did,  is  a  quedion  that  would  perhaps  admit 
"  more  debate  than  it  is  worth.  There  were  many  reafons 
"  for  the  corruptions  of  the  lafl ;  as  the  change  of  their  gov- 
"  ernment  to  a  tyranny,  which  ruined  the  fludy  of  eloquence, 
*'  there  being  no  further  ufe  or  encouragement  for  popular 
"orators  ;  their  giving  not  only  the  freedom  of  the  city,  but 
"  capacity  for  employments,  to  fcveral  towns  in  Gaul,  Spain, 
**  and  Germany,  and  other  dillant  parts,  as  far  as  Afia, 
*' which  brought  a  great  number  of  foreign  pretenders  to 
"  Rome  ;  the  flavlfli  difpofition  of  the  fenate  and  people,  by 
"  which  the  wit  and  eloquence  of  the  age  were  wholly  turned 
*'  into  panegyric,  the  moft  barren  of  all  fuhjefts ;  the  great 
"  corruption  of  manners,  and  introduQlon  of  foreign  luxury, 
"  with  foreign  terms  to  exprefs  it,  with  fcveral  otiievs  that 
'*  might  be  afligned  ;  not  to  mention  the  invafion  from  the 
*■  Goths  and  Vandals,  which  are  too  obvious  to  infifl  on." 

In  the  enumeration  lierc  made  of  the  caufes  contributing 
towards  the  corruption  of  the  Roman  Language,  there  are 
many  inaccuracies' — 'The  change  cf  their  government  to  a  tyranny 
—of  whofe  government  ?  He  had  indeed  been  fpeaking  of 
the  Roman  language,  and  therefore  we  guefs  at  Ills  m.eaning; 
but  the  Style  is  ungrammatical ;  for  he  had  not  mentioned 
the  Romans  themfelves ;  and  therefore,  when  he  fays  their 
government,  there  is  no  antecedent  in  the  fentencc  to  which  the 
pronoun,  their,  can  refer  with  any  propriety — Giving  the  ca- 
pacity for  employments  to  feveral  t-.ivvi  in  Gaul,  is  a  queftionable 

cxprellion. 


350  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION      Lect.  XXIV. 

cxpreflion.  For  though  towns  are  fometimes  put  for  the  people 
viho  inhabit  them,  yet  to  give  a  town  the  capacity  for  employmentSy 
founds  harfti  and  uncouth.  The  luit  and  eloquence  of  the  age 
Kvholly  turned  into  panegyric^  is  a  phrafe  which  does  not  well 
exprefs  the  meaning.  Neither  wit  nor  eloquence  can  be  turn- 
ed into  panegyric  \  but  they  may  be  turned  towards  pa/fegyricy 
or,  employed  in  paiiegyricy  which  was  the  fenfe  the  Author  had 
in  view. 

The  conclufion  of  the  enumeration  is  vifibly  incorre£l— r 
The  great  corruption  of  7naunerSy  atid  introduBioti  of  foreign  luxury,, 
^vith  foreign  terms  to  exprefs  it,  iviih  fever  a  I  others  that  might  be 
afftgned — He  means,  ivith  fevercl  other  reafons.  The  word  rca- 
fotis,  had  indeed  been  mentioned  before  j  but  as  it  (lands  at 
the  diflance  of  twelve  lines  backwards,  the  repetition  of  it 
here  became  indifpenfable,  in  order  to  avoid  ambiguity.  Not 
to  mention,  he  adds,  the  invofion  from  the  Goths  and  Vandals, 
luhich  are  too  obvious  to  inffl  on.  One  would  imagine  him  ta 
mean,  that  the  invaGon  from  the  Goths  and  Vandals,  are  hif- 
toricalfaEls  too  well  known  and  obvious  to  be  infilled  on.  But 
he  means  quite  a  different  tiling,  though  he  has  not  taken  the 
proper  method  of  exprefTing  it,  through  his  hafte,  probably,  to 
finifh  the  paragraph  ;  namely,  that  thefe  invafions  from  the, 
Goths  and  Vandals,  nvere  caufes  of  the  corruption  of  the  Roiiwta 
Language  too  obvious  to  be  inffled  on. 

I  fhall  not  purfue  this  criticifm  any  further.  I  have  been 
obliged  to  point  out  many  inaccuracies  in  the  paiTage  which 
we  have  confidered.  But,  in  order  that  my  obfervations  may 
not  be  conftrued  as  meant  to  depreciate  the  Style  or  the 
writings  of  Dean  Swift  below  their  jufl.  value,  there  are  tv^ 
remarks  v/hich  I  judge  it  neceifary  to  make  before  concluding 
this  Le£lure.  One  is,  That  it  were  unfair  to  eftimate  an  Au- 
thor's Style  on  the  whole,  by  fome  psfTage  in  his  writings, 
which  chances  to  be  compofed  in  a  carelefs  manner.  TJiis  is, 
the  cafe  with  refpeil  to  this  treatife,  which  has  much  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  hafly  produdlion  ;  though,  as  I  before  obferved, 
it  was  by  no  means  on  that  account  that  I  pitched  upon  it,  for 
the  fubjedl  of  this  excrcife.  But  after  having  examined  it,  I 
am  fenfible  that  in  many  other  of  his  writings,  the  Dean  is 
more  accurate. 

My 


Lect.XXIV.      of  dean  SWIFT's  style.  351 

My  other  obfervatlon,  which  applies  equally  to  Dean  Swift 
and  Mr.  Addifon  is,  that  there  may  be  writers  much  freer  of 
fuch  inaccuracies,  as  I  have  occafion  to  point  out  in  thefe  t\t^o, 
whofe  Style,  however,  upon  the  whole,  may  not  have  half  their 
merit.  Refinement  in  Language  has,  of  late  years,  begun  to 
be  much  attended  to.  In  feveral  modern  produ£lions  of  very 
fmall  value,  I  fliould  find  it  difficult  to  point  out  many  errors 
in  language.  The  words  might,  probably,  be  all  proper  words, 
corre£lly  and  cleatly  arranged  ;  and  the  turn  of  the  fentence 
fonorous  and  mufical ;  whilft  yet  the  Style,  upon  the  whole, 
might  deferve  no  praife.  The  fault  often  lies  in  what  may  be 
called  the  general  call,  or  complexion  of  the  Style  ;  which  a 
perfon  of  a  good  tafte  difcerns  tc  be  vicious  ;  to  be  feeble,  for 
inflance,  and  difFufe  ;  flimfy  or  affedled  ;  petulant  or  oftenta- 
tlous  ;  though  the  faults  cannot  be  fo  eafily  pointed  out  and 
particularifed,  as  when  they  lie  in  fomc  erroneous,  or  negligent 
con{lru£lion  of  a  fentence.  Whereas  fuch  writers  as  Addifon 
and  Swift,  carry  always  thofe  general  charaflers  of  good  Stylcj 
which,  in  the  midft  of  their  occafional  negligences,  every  per- 
fon  of  good  tafte  mufl;  difccrn  and  approve.  We  fee  their 
-faults  overbalanced  by  higher  beauties.  We  fee  a  writer  of 
fenfe  and  refle£lion  exprelhng  his  fentiments  without  afFecfla- 
tion,  attentive  to  thoughts  as  well  as  to  words  ;  and,  in  the  main 
current  of  his  Language,  elegant  and  beautiful  -,  and,  there- 
fore, the  only  proper  ufe  to  be  made  of  the  blemifhes  which, 
occur  in  the  writings  of  fuch  authors,  is  to  point  out  to  thofe 
who  apply  themfclves  to  the  ftudy  of  compofition,  fome  of  the 
rules  which  they  ought  to  obferve  for  avoiding  fuch  errors  ; 
and  to  render  them  fenfible  of  the  neceflity  of  ftri£l  attention 
to  Language  and  to  Style.  Let  them  imitate  the  eafe  and 
fimplicity  of  thofe  great  Authors  ;  let  them  ftudy  to  be  always 
natural,  and,  as  far  as  they  can,  always  corredl  in  their  expref- 
iions ;  let  them  endeavour  to  be,  at  fome  times,  lively  and 
ftt iking  ;  but  carefully  avoid  being  at  any  time  oftentatious 
and  afFe<Sled. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE         XXV. 


ELOQUENCE,   OR  PUBLIC   SPEAKING.      HISTORY 

OF  ELOQUENCE.       GRECIAN    ELOQITENCE. 

DEMOSTHENES. 

iriAVING  finifhed  that  purt  of  the  Cojirfe  which  re- 
lates to  Language  and  Style,  we  arc  now  to  afcend  a  Hep  high- 
er, and  to  examine  the  i"ubje6ls  upon  which  Style  is  employed. 
I  begin  with  what  is  properly  called  Eloquence,  or  Public 
Speaking.  In  treating  of  this,  I  am  to  coniider  the  different 
kinds  and  fubjefts  of  Public  Speaking ;  the  manner  fuited  to 
each ;  the  proper  diftribution  and  management  of  all  the  parts 
of  a  difcourfe  ;  and  the  proper  pronunciation  or  delivery  of  it. 
But  before  entering  on  any  of  thefe  heads,  it  may  be  proper 
to  take  a  view  of  the  nature  of  Eloquence  in  general,  and  of 
the  (late  in  which  it  has  {"ubfifted  in  different  ages  and  countries. 
This  will  lead  into  feme  detail ;  but  I  hope  an  ufeful  one  ;  as 
in  every  art  it  is  of  great  confequence  to  have  a  juil  idea  of 
the  pcrfc£lion  of  the  art,  of  the  end  at  which  it  aims,  and  of 
the  progrefs  wliich  it  has  made  among  mankind. 

Of  Eloquence,  in  particular,  it  is  the  more  neceflary  to  af- 
eertain  the  proper  notion,  bccaufe  there  is  not  any  thing  con- 
cerning wl:!ch  falfe  notions  have  been  more  prevalent.  Hence, 
it  has  been  fo  often>  and  is  dill  at  this  day,  in  difrepute  with 
many.  When  you  fpeak  to  a  plain  man,  of  Eloquence,  or  in 
praife  of  it,  he  is  apt  to  hear  you  with  very  little  attention. 
He  conceives  Eloquence  to  fignify  a  certain  trick  of  Speech  ; 
the  art  of  varniQiing  weak  arguments  plaufibly  ;  or  of  fpeak- 
ing,  fo  as  to  ple.ife  and  tickle  the  ear.  "  Give  me  good  fenfe," 
fays  he,  "  and  keep  your  Eloquence  for  boys."  He  is  in  tW- 
right,  if  Eloquence  were  what  he  conceives  it  to  be.  It  would 
be  then  a  very  contemptible  art  indeed,  below  the  lludy  of  any 

wife 


Lect.XXV.         ELOQ^UENCE,      &c.  353 

wife  or  good  man.  But  nothing  can  be  more  remote  from 
truth.  To  be  truly  eloquent,  is  to  fpeak  to  the  purpofe.  For 
the  befl  definition  which,  I  think,  can  be  given  of  Eloquence, 
is,  the  art  of  fpeaking  in  fuch  a  manner  as  to  obtain  the  end 
for  which  we  fpeak.  Whenever  a  man  fpeaks  or  wa-ites,  he  is 
fuppofed,  as  a  rational  being,  to  have  fome  end  in  vievi^ ;  either 
to  inform,  or  to  amufe,  or  to  perfuade,  or,  in  fome  way  or 
other,  to  z€t  upon  his  fellow-creatures.  He  who  fpeaks  or 
writes,  in  fuch  a  manner  as  to  adapt  all  his  words  mod  effec- 
tually to  that  end,  is  the  raofl  eloquent  man.  Whatever  then 
the  fubje£l  be,  there  is  room  for  Eloquence  ;  in  hiftory,  or  even 
in  philofophy,  as  well  as  in  orations.  The  definition  which  I 
have  given  of  Eloquence,  comprehends  all  the  different  kinds 
of  ir  ;  whether  calculated  to  inftrudi,  to  perfuade,  or  to  pleafe^ 
But,  as  the  mod  important  fubjedl  of  difcourfe  is  action,  or 
conducf^,  the  power  of  Eloquence  chiefly  appears  when  it  is 
employed  to  influence  condu<Sl,  and  perfuade  to  action.  As 
it  is  principally,  with  reference  to  this  end,  that  it  becomes  the 
obje£l  of  art,  Eloquence  may,  under  this  view  of  it,  be  defin- 
ed, the  art  of  perfuafion. 

This  being  once  eftablifhcd,  certain  confeq'uences  immediate- 
ly follow,  which  point  out  the  fundamental  maxims  of  the  art. 
It  follows  clearly,  that,  in  order  to  perfuade,  the  mo(t  efl"ential 
rcquifites  are,  folid  argument,  clear  method,  a  character  of 
probity  appearing  in  the  fpcaker,  joined  with  fuch  graces  of 
flyle  and  utterance,  as  fliall  draw  our  attention  to  what  he  fays. 
Good  fenfe  is  the  foundation  of  all.  No  man  can  be  truly 
eloquent  without  it ;  for  fools  can  perfuade  none  but  fools.  In 
order  to  perfuade  a  man  of  fenfe,  you  mufl  firfl:  convince  him  ; 
which  is  only  to  be  done,  by  fatisfying  his  underftanding  of 
the  reafonablenefs  of  what  youpropofe  to  him. 

This  leads  mi*  to  obferve,  that  convincing  and  perfuuding, 
though  they  arc  fomctimcs  confounded,  import,  notwithflanding, 
different  things,  '.vluch  it  is  neccfiary  for  us,  at  prcfent,  to  dif- 
tinguifli  from  each  other.  Convi£lion  affe£ls  the  underiland- 
ing  only  ;  perfuaHon,  the  will  and  the  pra£lice.  It  is  the  bufi- 
nefs  of  the  philofopher  to  convince  m.e  of  truth  ;  it  is  the  bnfi- 
nefs  of  the  orator  to  perfuade  me  to  a^  agreeably  to  it,  by 
engaging  my  affeQions  on  its  fide.  Convldicn  and  perfuafion 
iH  X  X  do 


354  ELOQJJENCE,     OR       Lect.  XXV. 

do  not  always  go  together.  Tliey  ought,  indeed,  to  go  togeth- 
,  er  ;  and  ivould  do  fo,  if  our  inclination  regularly  followed  the 
diflatcs  of  our  undcrflanding.  But  as  our  nature  is  conftitut- 
ed,  I  may  be  convinced,  that  virtue,  jullice,  or  public  fpirit, 
are  laudable,  while,  at  the  fame  time,  I  am  not  perfuaded  to 
2£l  according  to  them.  The  inclination  may  revolt,  though 
tlie  undcrflanding  be  fatisfied  :  the  pafiions  may  prevail  againft 
tlie  judgment.  Conviflion  is,  however,  always  one  avenue  to 
the  inclination  or  heart ;  and  it  is  that  which  an  orator  muft 
firfl;  bend  his  ftrength  to  gain  :  for  no  perfuafion  is  likely  to  be 
liable,  which  is  not  founded  on  convi£lion.  But,  in  order  to 
perfuade,  the  orator  muft  go  farther  than  merely  producing 
convi£lion ;  he  muft  confider  man  as  a  creature  moved  by 
mahy  different  fprings,  and  muft  adl  upon  them  all.  He  mult 
addrefs  himfclf  to  the  pafTions  j  he  muft  paint  to  the  fancy, 
and  touch  the  heart  -,  and,  hence,  befides  folid  argument,  and- 
clear  method,  all  the  conciliating  and  intcrefting  arts,  both  of 
compofition  and  pronunciation,  enter  into  the  ideaof  Eloquence. 
An  objection  may,  perhaps,  hence  be  formed  againft  Elo- 
quence -,  as  an  art  which  may  be  employed  for  perfuading  to 
ill,  as  well  as  to  good.  There  is  no  doubt  that  it  may  ;  and  fo 
reafoning  may  alfo  be,  and  too  often  is  employed,  for  leading 
men  into  error.  But  who  could  think  of  forming  an  argu- 
ment from  this  againft  the  cultivation  of  our  reafoning  powers  I 
Reafon,  Eloquence,  and  every  art  which  ever  has  been  ftudied 
among  mankind,  may  be  abufed,  and  may  prove  dangerous  in 
the  hands  of  bad  men  ;  but  it  were  perfe£lly  childifli  to  con- 
tend, that,  upon  this  account,  they  ought  to  be  abrogated. 
Give  truth  and  virtue  the  fame  arms  which  you  give  vice  and 
falfehood,  and  the  former  are  likely  to  preva  1.  Eloquence  is 
no  invention  of  the  fchools.  Nature  reaches  every  man  to  be 
eloquent,  when  he  is  much  in  earneft.  Place  him  in  feme 
critical  fituation  •,  let  him  have  fome  great  intercft  at  ftake, 
and  you  will  fee  him  lay  hold  of  the  moft  efTeiQual  means  of 
perfuafion.  The  art  of  oratory  proppfes  nothing  more  than 
to  follow  out  that  track  v/hich  nature  has  firft  pointed  out  to 
men.  And  the  more  exactly  that  this  track  is  purfued,  the 
more  that  Eloquence  is  properly  ftudied,  the  more  fhall  we  be 
guarded  againft  the  abufe  which  bad  men  make  of  it,  and  en- 

rnhkA 


^^ 


Bect.  XXV.       PUBLIC    SPEAKING.  355 

abled  tlie  better  to  diftinguilh  between  true  Eloquence  and  the 
•tricks  of  fophiflry. 

We  may  dilUnguifh  three  kinds,  or  de^!;rees  of  Eloquence. 
The  firll,  and  lowell:,  is  that  which  aims  only  at  pleafmg  the 
hearers.  Such,  generally,  is  the  Eloquence  of  panegyrics,  in- 
augural orations,  addrefles  to  great  men,  and  other  harangues 
of  this  fort.  This  ornamental  fort  of  ccmpofition  is  not  alto- 
getherto  be  veje£lcd.  It  may  innocently  amufe  and  entertain  the 
mind;  and  it  may  be  mixed,  at  the  fame  time,  with  very  ufe- 
ful  fentiments.  But  it  muft  be  confefled,  that  where  the 
fpeaker  has  no  farther  aim  than  merely  to  {hine  and  to  pleafe, 
there  is  great  danger  of  art  being  ftrained  into  oftentation,  and 
;  of  the  compolition  becoming  tirefome  and  languid. 

A  fecond  and  a  higher  degree  of  Eloquence  is,  when  the 
fpeaker  aims  not  merely  to  pleafe,  but  alfo  to  inform,  to  in- 
ttru£l,  to  convince  :  when  his  art  is  exerted,  in  removing  prej- 
udices a  .unft  himfelf  and  his  caufe,  in  choofing  the  mod  prop- 
er arguments,  dating  them  with  the  grcateft  force,  arranging 
them  in  the  belt  order,  exprefiing  and  delivering  them  witli 
propriety  and  beauty ;  and  thereby  difpofing  us  to  pafs  that 
.judgment,  or  embrace  that  fide  of  the  caufe,  to  which  he  feeks 
to  bring  us.  Within  this  compafs,  chiefly,  is  employed  the 
Eloquence  of  the  bar. 

But  there  is  a  third,  and  fllU  higher  degree  of  Eloquence, 
wherein  a  greater  power  is  exerted  over  the  human  mind  ;  by 
■which  we  are  not  only  conceived,  but  are  interciled,  agitated, 
and  carried  along  with  the  fpeaker  ;  our  paffions  are  made  to 
irife  together  with  his  J  we  enter  into  all  his  emotions  ;  we  love, 
we  detell,  we  refent,  according  as  he  infpires  us;  and  are 
prompted  to  refolve,  or  to  aCt,  with  Vigour  and  warmth.  De- 
bate, in  popular  aflemblies,  opens  the  mofl  illuflrious  lield  to 
this  fpecics  of  Eloquence  ;  and  the  pulpit  alfo  admits  it. 

I  am  here  to  obferve,  and  the  obfervation  is  of  confequence, 
that  the  high  Eloquence  which  I  have  laft  mentioned,  is  always 
the  offspring  of  paflion.  By  paffion,  I  mean  that  flate  of  the 
mind  in  which  it  is  agitated,  and  fired,  by  feme  objeft  it  hss 
in  view.  A  man  may  convince,  and  even  perfuadc  others  to 
.  a£t,  by  mere  reafon  and  argument'.  But  that  degree  of  Eio- 
.  qucnce  which  gauis  the  admiration  of  mankind,  and  properly 

^  denominate 


356  E  L  O  QJJ  E  N  C  E,    OR        Lect.  XXV. 

denominates  one  an  orator,  is  never  found  without  warmth  or 
paflion.  Paflion,  v/hen  in  fuch  a  degree  as  to  roufe  and  kindle 
the  mind,  without  throwing  it  out  of  the  pofTelFion  of  itfelf, 
is  univerfally  found  to  exalt  all  the  human  powers.  It  renders 
the  mind  infinitely  more  enlij^htened,  more  penetrating,  more 
vigorous  and  mallerly,  than  it  is  in  its  calm  moments.  A  man, 
afluated  by  a  Itrong  paflion,  becomes  much  greater  than  he  is 
at  other  times.  He  is  confcious  of  more  llrength  and  fo.rce  ; 
he  utters  greater  fentiments,  conceives  higher  defigus,  and  ex- 
ecutes them  with  a  boldnefs  and  a  felicity,  of  which,  on  other 
occafions,  he  could  not  think  himfelf  capable.  But  chiefly, 
with  refpetfl  to  perfuaflon,  is  the  power  of  palFion  felt.  Al- 
mofl  every  man,  in  paflion,  is  eloquent.  Then  he  is  at  no  lofs 
for  words  and  arguments.  He  tranfmits  to  others,  by  a  fort 
of  contagious  fympathy,  the  warm  fentiments  which  he  feels  ; 
his  looks  and  gefl:ures  are  all  perfuafive  ;  and  nature  here  Ihows 
herfelf  infinitely  more  powerful  than  art.  This  is  the  foun- 
dation of  that  juft  and  noted  rule  :  "  Si  vis  me  flere,  dolcndum 
**  eft  primum  ipfi  tibi." 

This  principle  being  once  admitted,  that  all  high  Eloquence 
flows  from  paflion,  feveral/confequences  follow,  which  deferve 
to  be  attended  to  •,  and  the  mention  of  which  v/ill  fervc  to  con- 
firm the  principle  itfelf.  For  hence  the  univerfally  acknowledg- 
ed effeft  of  enthu-flafm,  or  warmth  of  any  kind,  in  public 
fpcakers,  for  affecling  their  audience.  Hence  all  laboured  dec- 
lamation, and  afli;£ted  ornaments  of  ftyle,  which  {how  the 
mind  to  be  cool  and  unmoved,  are  fo  inconfiflent  with  perfua- 
five Eloquence.  Hence  all  Itudied  prettinefles,  in  geiture  oi 
pronunciation,  detra£l  fo  .greatly  from  the  weight  of  a  fpeaker. 
Hence  a  difcourfe  that  is  read,  moves  us  lefs  than  one  that  is 
fpoken,  as  having  lefs  the  appearance  of  coming  warm  from  the 
heart.  Hence,  to  cdl  a  man  cold,  is  the  fame  thing  as  to  fay, 
that  he  is  not  eloquent.  Hence,  a  fceptical  man,  who  is  always 
in  fufpenfe,  and  fells  nothing  llrongly  j  or  a  cunning  mercena- 
ry man,  who  is  fufpe<!fbed  rather  to  afl'umc  the  appearance  of 
paflion  than  to  feel  it ;  have  fo  little  power  over  men  in  public 
fpeaking.  Hence,  in  fine,  the  necclfity  of  being,  and  be- 
ing believed  to  be,  difintereRed,  and  in  earncll,  in  order  to 
perfuade. 

Thefe 


Lect.  XXV.      PUBLIC    SPEAKING.  357 

Thefc  are  fome  of  the  capital  ideas  which  have  occurred  to 
me,  concerning  Eloquence  in  g'^neral  ;  and  v,'ith  which  I  have 
thought  proper  to  begin,  as  the  foundation  of  much  of  what 
am  afterwards  to  fuggeft.  From  what  I  have  already  faid,  it 
is  evident  that  Eloquence  is  a  high  talent  and  of  great  import- 
ance in  fociety  ;  and  that  it  requires  both  natural  genius,  and 
much  improvement  from  art.  Viewed  as  the  art  of  perfua- 
fion,  it  requires,  in  its  lowe(t  flats,  foundnefs  of  underllan-ding, 
and  confiderable  acquaintance  with  human  nature ;  and,  in  its 
higher  degrees,  it  requires,  moreover,  llrong  fenfibility  of  mind, 
a  warm  and  lively  imagination,  joined  with  corredlnefs  of 
judgment,  and  an  extenfive  command  of  the  power  of  Lan- 
guage ;  to  which  mull  alfo  be  added,  the  graces  of  pronunci- 
ation and  delivery.  Let  us  next  proceed,  to  confider  in  wliat 
Hate  Eloquence  has  fubfided  in  different  ages  and  nations. 

It  is  an  cbfcrvation  made  by  ieveral  writers,  that  Eloquence 
is  to  be  looked  for  only  in  free  flates.  Longinus,  in  particular, 
at  the  end  of  his  treatife  on  the  Sublime,  when  afBgning  the 
reafon  why  fo  little  fublimity  of  genius  appeared  in  the  age 
Avherein  he  lived,  illaftrates  this  obfervation  with  a  great 
deal  of  beauty.  Liberty,  he  remarks,  is  the  nurfe  of  true  genius^ 
it  animates  the  fpirit,  and  invigorates  the  hopes  of  men ;  ex- 
cites honourable  emulation,  and  a  defire  of  excelling  in  every 
Art.  All  other  qualifications,  he  fays,  you  may  find  among 
thofe  who  are  deprived  of  liberty  j  but  never  did  a  flave  be- 
come an  orator ;  he  can  only  be  a  pompous  flatterer.  Now, 
though  this  reafoning  be,  in  the  main,  true-,  itmuft,  however, 
be  underflood  with  fome  limitations.  For,  under  arbitrary 
governments,  if  they  be  of  the  civilized  kind,  and  give  cncour-» 
agcment  to  the  arts,  ornamental  Eloquence  may  liouriQi  re- 
markably. V/itnefs  France  at  this  day,  where,  ever  fince  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  more  of  what  may  juftly  be  called  Ela~ 
oquence,  within  a  certain  fphere,  is  to  be  fouruJ,  tlian,  perhaps, 
in  any  other  nation  of  Europe  i  though  freedom  be  enjoyed 
by  fome  of  them  in  a  much  greater  degree.  Their  fermons, 
and  orations  pronounced  on  public  occafions,  are  not  only  po- 
lite and  elegant  harangues,  but  feveral  of  them  arc  uncommon- 
ly fpirited,  animated  with  bold  figures,  and  rife  to  a  degree  of 

the 


3'j8  HISTORY  OF  ELOQUENCE.      Lect.  XXV 

the  Sublime.  Their  Eloquence,  however,  in  general,  mufl  be 
confefTed  to  be  of  the  flowery,  rather  than  the  vigorous  kind  ; 

'Calculated  more  to  pleafc  and  foothe,  than  to  convince  and  per- 
fuade.  High,  manly,  and  forcible  Eloquence  is,  indeed,  to  be 
looked  for  only,  or  chiefly,  in  the  regions  of  freedom.  Under 
arbitrary  governments,  befides  the  general  turn  of  foftncfs  an<l 
effeminacy  which  fuch  governments  may  be  jufl;ly  fuppofed 
to  give  to  the  fpirit  of  a  nation,  the  art  of  fpeaking  cannot  be 
fach  an  inftrument  of  ambition,  bufinefs,  and  pov/er,  as  it  is 
in  more  derhocratical  dates.  It  is  confined  within  a  narrower 
range ;  it  can  be  exerted  only  in  the  pulpit,  or  at  the  bar ; 
but  is  excluded  from  thofe  great  fcenes  of  public  bufinefs, 
v/here  the  fpirits  of  men  have  the  freed  play ;  where  import- 
ant affairs  are  tranfa£ted,  and  perfuafion,  of  courfe,  is  more 
ferioufly  ftudied.  Wherever  man  can  acquire  mod  power 
ever  man  by  meairs  of  reafon  and  difcourfe,  which  certainly  is 
under  a  free  date  of  government,  there  we  may  naturally  expe£l 
that  true  Eloquence  will  be  bed  underdood,  and  carried  to.  the 
greateft  height. 

Hence,  in  tracing  the  rife  of  oratory,  we  ne^d  not  attempt 
to  go  far  back  into  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  or  fearch  for  it 
among  the  monuments  of  Eaitern  or  Egyptian  antiquity.  In 
thofe  ages,  there  was,  indeed,  an  Eloquence  of  a  certain  kind ; 
but  it  approached  nearer  to  poetry,  than  to  v/hat  we  properly 
call  oratory.  There  is  reafoa  to  believe,  as  I  formerly  Ihew- 
ed,  that  the  Language  of  the  fird  ages  was  paflionate  and  me- 
taphorical ;  owing  partly  to  the  fcanty  dock  of  words,  of  v/hich 
Speech  then  confided ;  arid  partly  to  the  tindture  which  Lan- 
guage naturally  takes  from  the  favage  and  uncultivated  date  of 
men,  agitated  by  unredrained  paffions,  and  druck  by  events, 
which  to  them  are  drange  and  furprifing.     In  thia  date,  rap- 

■  tare  and  enthufiafm,  the  parents  of  poetry,  had  an  ample  field; 
But  while  the  intercourfe  of  men  v/as  as  yet  unfrequent,  and 
force  and  drength  were  the  chief  means  employed  in  deciding 
controverfies,  the  arts  of  oratory  and  perfuadon,  of  reafoning 
and  debate,  could  be  but  little  known.  The  drd  empires  that 
arcfe,  the  Aflyrian  and  Egyptian,  were  of  the  defpotic  kind. 
The  whole  power  was  in  the  hands  of  one,  or  at  mod  of  a  few. 
The  multitude  v/ere  accudomed  to  a  blind  reverence  :  they 
-vvcre  led,  not  perfuaded  ;  and  none  of  tlxofe  refinements  of 

.  fo£lety, 


I-ECT.XXV.      GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE,  359 

fociety,  which  make  public  fpeaking  an  objecSl  of  importance, 
were  as  yet  introduced. 

It  is  not  till  the  rife  of  the  Grecian  republics,  that  we  find, 
any  remarkable  appearances  of  Eloquence  as  the  art  of  perfua- 
(lon  J  and  thefe  gave  it  fuch  a  field  as  it  never  had  before,  and, 
perhaps,  has  never  had  again  fincc  that  time.  And,  there- 
fore, as  the  Grecian  Eloquence  has  ever  been  the  obje£t  of  ad- 
miration to  thofe  who  have  fludied  the  powers  of  Speech,  it 
is  neceflary,  that  we  fix  our  attction,  for  a  little,  on  this  period. 

Greece  was  divided  into  a  multitude  of  petty  dates.  Thefe 
•were  governed,  at  firfl,  by  kings  who  were  called  Tyrants,  and  who 
being,  in  fucccfiion,  expelled  from  all  thefe  ftates,  there  fprung 
up  a  great  number  of  democratical  governments, founded  near- 
ly on  the  fame  plan,  animated  by  the  fame  high  fpirit  of  free- 
dom, mutually  jealous,  and  rivals  of  each  other.  We  may 
compute  the  flourifiiing  period  of  thofe  Grecian  ftates,  to  have 
lafted  from  the  battle  of  Marathon,  till  the  time  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  w^ho  fubdued  the  liberties  of  Greece  ;  a  period 
which  comprehends  about  150  years,  and  within  which  are  to 
be  found  moft  of  their  celebrated  poets  and  philofophers,  but 
chiefly  their  orators  :  for  though  poetry  and  philofophy  were 
cot  extiucl  among  them  after  that  period,  yet  Eloquence  hard- 
ly made  any  figure- 

Of  thefe  Grecian  republics,  the  moft  noted,  by  far,  for  El- 
oquence, and,  indeed  for  arts,  of  every  kind,  was  that  of  A- 
thens.  The  Athenians  were  an  ingenious,  quick,  fprightly 
people  ;  pra6tifed  in  bufinefs,  and  fliarpened  by  frequent  and 
fuddcn  revolutions,  M'hich  happened  in  their  goverjiment.  The 
genius  of  their  government  was  entirely  democratical  ;  their 
legiflature  confifted  of  the  whole  body  of  the  people.  They 
had,  indeed,  a  Senate  of  five  hundred  ;  but  in  the  general  con- 
vention of  the  citizens  was  placed  the  laft  refort  ;  and  affairs 
were  conducted  there,  altogether,  by  reafoni^g,  fpealung,  and 
a  Ikiiful  nnplication  to  the  paflions  and  interefts  of  a  popu- 
lar affembly.  There,  laws  were  made,  peace  and  war  decreed^ 
and  thence  the  magi  Pirates  were  chofen.  For  the  higheft  hon- 
ours of  the  ftate  were  alike  open  to  all  •,  nor  was  the  ineaneft 
tradefman  excluded  from  a  feat  in  their  fupreme  ccuris.  Iii 
fuch  a  ftate,  Eloquence,  it  is  obvious,  would  be  much  ftudied, 


26o  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.      Lect.  XXV, 

as  the  furefl  means  of  rifing  to  influence  and  power  ;  and 
"what  fort  of  Eloquence  ?  Not  that  which  was  brilliant  nnerely, 
and  fliowy,  but  that  which  was  found,  upon  trial,  to  be  moll 
efFedual  {(X  convincing,  interefling  and  perfuading  the  hearers^. 
For  there,  public  fpcaking  was  not  a  n^ere  competition  for 
empty  applaufe,  but  a  fcrious  contention  for  that  public  lead- 
ing, which  was  the  great  object  both  of  the  men  of  ambition^ 
and  the  men  of  virtue. 

Among  a  nation  fo  enlightened  and  acute,  and  where  the 
higheft  attention  was  paid  to  every  thisg  elegant  in  the  arts, 
we  may  naturally  exped:  to  find  the  public  tafle  refined  and 
judicious.  Accordingly,  it  was  improved  to  fuch  a  degree, 
that  the  Attic  tafte  and  Attic  manner  Iiave  pafled  into  a  prov- 
erb. It  is  true,  that  ambitious  demagogues,  and  corrupt  or- 
ators, did  fometimes  dazzle  and  mifleadthe  people,  by  a  Ihowy 
but  falfe  Eloquence  ;  for  the  Athenians,  with  all  their  acutenefs, 
werefa£liousandgiddy,  and  great  admirers  of  every  novelty.  But 
%vhen  fome  important  jnterefl  drew  their  attention,  when  any 
great  danger  roufed  them,  and  put  their  judgment  to  a  feriou? 
trial,  they  commonly  diflinguifhed,  very  juflly,  between  genuin? 
and  fpurious  Eloquence  :  and  hence  Demofthenes  triumphed 
over  all  his  opponents  5  becaufe  he  fpcke  always  to  the  purpofe, 
affected  no  infignificant  parade  of  words,  ufed  weighty  argu- 
ments, and  (hewed  them  clearly  where  their  interefl  lay.  In 
critical  conjunctures  of  the  (late,  when  the  public  was  alarmed 
with  fome  prefiing  danger,  when  the  people  were  affembled, 
and  proclamation  was  made  by  the  crier,  for  any  one  to  rife 
and  deliver  his  opinion  upon  the  prefent  fituation  of  affairs, 
empty  declamation  and  fophilticalreafoning  would  notonlyhavc 
been  hified,  but  refented  and  puniflied  by  an  aflembly  fo  intel- 
ligent and  accuftomcdto  bufinefs.  Their  greatefl  orators  trem- 
bled on  fuch  occafions,  when  they  rofe  to  addrefs  the  people, 
as  they  knew  they  were  to  be  held  anfwerable  for  the  iiTue  of 
the  counfel  which  they  gave.  The  mofl  liberal  endowments  of 
the  greatefl  princes  never  could  found  fucli  a  fchool  for  true 
oratory,  as  was  formed  by  the  nature  of  the  Athenian  republic. 
Eloquence  there  fprung,  native  and  vigorous,  from  amidfl  the 
contentions  of  fadlion  and  freedom,  of  public  bufmcfs,  and  of 
aQive  life  ;  and  not  from  that  retirement  and  fpeculation,  which 

v/e 


Lect.XXV.      GRECIAN  ELOQTJENCE.  361 

we  are  apt  fometimes  to  fancy  mors  favourabk  to  Eloquence 
than  they  ars  found  to  be. 

Pififtratus,  who  was  cotemporary  with  Solon,  and  fubverted 
his  plan  of  government,  is  mentioned  by  Plutarch,  as  the  firft 
who  diftinguirtied  himfelf  among  the  Athenians  by  application 
to  the  arts  of  Speech.  Plis  ability  in  thcfe  arts,  he  employed 
for  railing  himfelf  to  the  fovereign  power ;  which,  however, 
when  he  had  attained,  he  exercifed  with  moderation.  Of  the 
orators  who  flourilhed  between  his  time  and  the  Peloponnefian 
war,  no  particular  mention  Is  made  in  hiftory.  Pericles,  who 
died  about  the  beginning  of  that  war,  was  properly  the  firlt 
who  carried  Eloquence  to  a  great  height ;  to  fuch  a  height,  in- 
deed, that  it  does  not  appear  he  was  ever  afterwards  furpafled. 
He  was  more  than  an  orator  ;  he  was  alfo  a  llatefman  and  a 
general  ;  expert  in  bufmefs,  and  of  eonfummate  addrefs.  For 
forty  years,  he  governed  Athens  with  abfolute  fway  ;  and 
hiHorians  afcribe  his  influence,  not  more  to  his  political 
talents  than  to  his  Eloquence,  which  was  of  that  forcible  and 
vehement  kind,  that  bore  every  thing  befor-e  it,  and  triumphed 
over  the  paflions  and  afFe6lions  of  the  people.  Hence  he  had 
the  furname  of  Olympias  given  him  ;  and  it  was  faid,  that,  like 
Jupiter,  he  thundered  when  he  fpoke.  Though  his  ambition 
be  liable  to  cenfure,  yet  great  virtues  certainly  he  had  ;  and  it 
was  the  confidence  which  the  people  repofed  in  his  integrity, 
that  gave  fuch  power  to  his  Eloquence ;  a  circumftance,  with- 
out which  the  influence  of  public  fpcaking  in  a  popular 
ftate  can  feldom  go  far.  He  appears  to  have  been  generous^ 
magnanimous^  and  public  fpirited  :  he  raifed  no  fortune  to  him- 
felf J  he  expended  indeed  great  fums  of  the  public  money,  but 
chiefly  on  public  works ;  and  at  his  death  is  faid  to  have  valu- 
ed himfelf  principally  on  having  never  obliged  any  citizen  to 
wear  mourning  on  his  account,  during  his  long  adminidration. 
It  is  a  remarkable  particular  recorded  of  Pericles  by  Suidas, 
that  he  was  the  firft  Athenian  who  compofed,  and  put  into 
writing,  a  difcourfe  defigned  for  the  public, 

Pofterior  to  Pericles,  in  the  courfe  of  the  Peloponnefian  war, 
arofe  Cleon,  Alcibiades,  Critias,  and  Tlieramenes,  eminent 
citizens  of  Athens,  who  were  all  diftinguilhed  for  their  Elov 
qucnce.  They  were  not  orators  by  profeflion  ;  they  were  not 
icrmed  by  fchools,  but  by  a  much  more  powerful  education, 
Y  Y  that 


362  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.       Lect.XXV. 

that  of  bufinefs  and  debate ;  where  man  fharpened  man,  and 
civil  affairs  carried  on  by  public  fpeaking,  called  forth  every 
exertion  of  the  mind.  The  manner  or  ftylc  of  oratory  which 
then  prevailed,  we  learn  from  the  orations  in  the  hillory  of 
Thucydides,  who  alfo  floj/rifhed  in  the  fame  age.  It  was  man- 
ly, vehement,  and  et^cife,  even  to  fqme  degree  of  obfcurity. 
*'  Grandes  erant  verbis,"  fays  Cicero,  "  crebri  fentenhis,  com- 
"  prcfTione  rerum  Treves,  et,  ob  earn  ipfam  caufam,  interdum 
"  fubobfcuri."*  A  manner  very  different  from  wliat  in  modern 
times  we  would  conceive  to  be  the  (lyle  of  popular  oratory  ; 

»  and  which  tends  to  give  a  high  idea  of  the  acutenefs  of  thofe 
audiences  to  which  they  fpoke. 

The  power  of  Eloquence  haying,  after  the  days  of  Pericles, 
become  an  objefl  of  greater  confequence  than  ever,  this  gave 
birth  to  a  fet  of  men  till  then  unknown,  called  rhetoricians, 
and  fometimes  fophills,  who  arofe  in  multitudes  during  the 
Peloponnefian  war  ;  fuch  as  Protigojas,  Prodicas,  Thrafymus, 
and  one  who  was  more  eminent  than  all  the  reft,  Gorgias  of 
Leontium.  Thefe  fophifts  joined  to  their  art  of  rhetoric,  a 
fubtile  logic,  and  were  generally  a  fort  of  metaphyfical  fceptics. 
Gorgias,  however,  was  a  profelTed  matter  of  Eloquence  only. 
His  reputation  was  prodigious.  He  was  highly  venerated  .in 
Leoutium  of  Sicily,  his  native  city ;  and  money  was  coinpd 
with  his  name  upon  it.  In  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  he  ellab- 
liQied  himfelf  at  Athene,  and  lived  till  he  had  attained  the  age 
of  105  years.  Hermogenes  (de  Ideis,  1.  ii.  cap.  9.)  has  preferv- 
ed  a  fragment  of  his,  from  which  we  fee  his  ftyleand  manner. 
It  is  extremely  quaint  and  artificial ;  full  of  antithefis  and 
pointed  expreflion  ;  and  (hows  how  far  the  Grecian  fubtility  had 
already  carried  the  ftudy  of  language.  Thefe  rhetoricians  did 
jiot  content  themfelves  with  delivering  general  inftru£lions 
concerning  Eloquence  to  their  pupils,  and  endeavouring  to  foi;m 
their  tafbe  ;  but  they  profefled  the  art  of  giving  them  receipts 

.  for  making  all  forts  of  orations  ;  and  of  teaching  them  how  to 
fpeak  for,  and  againfl,  every  caufe  whatever.  Upon  this  plan, 
they  were  the  firft  who  treated  of  common  places,-  and  the  ar- 
tificial invention  of  arguments  and  topics  for  every  fubjeit.     In 

the 

.  *  "They  wcremas^nificent  in  their  exprefHons;  they  abounded  in  thought  1 
"  they  compreflcd  their  matter  into  few  words,  and,  by  their  brevity,  wcic 
«  ibmeUmes  oblcure." 


Lect.XXV.       GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE,  363 

the  hands  of  fuch  men,  we  may  eafily  believe  that  oratory 
would  degenerate  from  the  mafculine  flrain  it  had  hitherto  held, 
and  become  a  trifling  and  fophiftical  art ;  and  we  may  jurftly 
deem  them  the  firft  corrupters  of  true  Eloquence.  To  them, 
the  great  Socrates  oppofed  himfelf.  By  a  profound,  but  fimple 
reafoning  peculiar  to  himfelf,  he  exploded  their  fophiftry  ;  and 
eiideavotired  to  recal  men's  attention  from  that  abufe  of  rea- 
fohing  and  difcourfe  which  began  to  be  in  vogue,  to  natural 
language,  and  found  and  ufeful  thought. 

In  the  fame  age,  though  fomewhat  later  than  the  philofopher 
above  mentioned,  flourifhed  Ifo crates,  whole  writings  are  ftill 
extant.  He  was  a  profefled  rhetorican,  arid  by  teaching  Elo- 
quence, he  acquired  both  a  great  fortune,  and  higher  fame 
than  any  of  his  rivals  in  that  profefiion.  No  contemptible  or- 
ator he  was.  His  orations  are  full'  of  morality  and  good  fen- 
tlments  :  they  are  flowing  and  fmooth  ;  but  too  deftitute  of 
vigour.  He  never  engagQdr^h  public  afTairs,  nor  pleaded  caufes  ; 
and  accordingly  his"'^oi£tions  arc  calculated  only  for  the 
i[hadc  J  "  Pompas,"  Cicero  allows,  "  magis  quam  pugnx  ap- 
**  tior  ;  ad  voluptatem  auriufti  accommodatus  potius  quam  ad 
"  judicioruni  certameiT."*  The  flyle  of  Gbrgias  of  Leontium 
was  formed  into  fhort  fentences, '  compofed  generally  of  two 
miembers  balanced  againft  each  ether.  The  ftyle  of  Ifocrates, 
on  the  contrary',  is  fvvelling"  and  full  j  and  he  is  faid  to  be  the 
firft  who  introduced  the  method  of  compoflrig  in  regular  peri- 
ods, which  had  a  ftudied  mufic  and  harmonious  cadence  ;  a 
manner  which  he  has  carried  to  a  vicious  excefs.  What  fhall 
we  think  of  an  orator,  whb  employed  ten  years  in  compofing 
one  difcourfe,  ftill  ex'tant,  entitled  the  Panegyric  ?  How  much 
frivolous  care  muft  have  been  beilowed  on  all  the  minute  ele- 
gance of  words  arid  fentences  .^  Dionyfius  of  Halicarnaflus  has 
given  us  upon  the  orations  of  Ifocrates,  as  alfo  upon  thofe  of 
fome  other  Greek  orators,  a  full  and  regular  treatife,  which  is,i 
in  my  opinion,  one  of  the  moft  judicious  pieces  of  ancient  crlt- 
icifm  extant,  and  very  worthy  of  being  confulted.  He  com- 
mends the  fplendour  of  Ifocrates's  ftyle,  and  the  morality  of 
his  fentiments  j    but  feverely  cenfures  his  affectation,  and  the 

uniform 

*  "  More  fitted  for  fhow  than  for  debate  ;  better  calculated  for  the  atnufc- 
"  mcnt  of  an  audient'e,  than  for  judicial  contefts." 


364  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.      Lect.XXV. 

uniform  regular  cadence  of  all  his  fentences.  He  holds  him  to 
be  a  fiorld  dcclaimer;  not  a  natural  perfuafive  fpeaker.  Cicero, 
in  his  critical  works,  though  he  admits  his  failings,  yet  difcov- 
ers  a  propenfity  to  be  very  favourable  to  that  "  plena  ac  nume- 
*'  rofa  oratio,"  that  fwelling  and  mufical  ftyle,  wliich  Ifocrates 
introduced  ;  and  with  the  love  of  which,  Cicero  himfelf  was, 
perhaps,  fomewhat  infedled.  In  one  of  his  treatifes  {Orat.  ad 
M.  Brut.)  he  informs  us,  that  his  friend  Brutus  and  he  differed 
in  this  particular,  and  that  Brutus  found  fault  with  his  partial- 
ity to  Ifocrates.  The  manner  of  Ifocrates  generally  catcher 
young  people,  when  they  begin  to  attend  to  compofition  ; 
and  it  is  very  natural  that  it  fliould  do  fo.  It  gives  them  an 
idea  of  that  regularity,  cadence  and  magnificence  of  ftyle, 
which  fills  the  ear  :  but  when  they  come  to  wrire  or  fpeak  for 
the  world,  they  will  find  this  oftentatious  manner  unfit,  either 
for  carrying  on  bufinefs,  or  commanding  attention.  It  is  faid, 
that  the  high  reputation  of  Ifocrates,  prompted  Ariftotle,  who 
was  nearly  his  cotemporary,  or  lived  but  a  little  after  him,  to 
w  rite  his  inftitutions  of  rhetoric  ;  which  arc  indeed  formed  up- 
on a  plan  of  Eloquence  very  different  from  that  of  Ifocrates^ 
and  the  rhetoricians  of  that  time.  Hefeemsto  have  had  it  in 
view  to  diredl  the  attention  of  orators  much  more  towards 
convincing  and  afFe£ling  their  hearers,  than  towards  the  mufic- 
al cadence  of  periods* 

Ifaeus  and  Lyfias,  forae  of  whofe  orations  are  prefervcd,  be- 
long alfo  to  this  period.  Lyfias  was  fomewhat  earlier  than 
Ifocrates,  and  is  the  model  of  that  manner  which  the  ancients 
call  the  "Teniusvel  vSubtilis."  Ke  has  none  of  Ifocrates's 
pomp.  He  is  every  where  pure  and  zti'.c  in  the  higheft  de- 
gree ;  fimple  and  unaffeQcd  :  but  wants  force,  and  is  fome- 
times  frigid  in  his  compofitions*     Ifaeus  is  chicfiy  remarkable 

for 

*  In  the  judif  ioiis  compgrifon,  ^vl)ic^l  Dioryfiiis  of  Hilicnrnnni?  msTes  of 
the  ir.crits  of  I.yflas  and  Ilocratts,  he  ?.fcribes  to  Lyfias,  as  tlic  diftinguifliing 
chara(fter  of  his  manner,  a  certain  grace  or  elegance  arifing  from  fimpliciiy  ; 
"  ■sjifoxf  yocQ  VI  Ai/cria  j't^if  'X''"  ^°  ^"f^"  ^'  IcoffKtM;,  (inxirai."  "  The  ftyle  C>f  Ly- 
"  fias  has  gracefulnefs  for  its  natuit  :  that  of  Ilocratcf  feelcs  to  have  it."  In 
the  art  of  narration,  as  difuncfl,  probable,  and  pfrfualive,  ht  holds  Lvfia?  to 
be  fuperior  to  all  orators;  at  the  fame  time,  lie  admits  that  his  compofition  is 
more  adapted  to  private  litigation  than  10  great  fuojf(5>s.  He  convinces,  but 
he  does  not  elevate  nor  animate.  1  he  magnificence  and  fplcr.dnur  of  Ifocrates 
IS  more  fuittd  to  great  occafions.  He  is  more  agreeable  thnn  LyriRs;and, 
in  dignity  of /entiment,  far  excels  him.  With  regaid  to  the  affectation  vhich  is 
viable  in  Ifocrates's   manner,  he  tencludcs  ■■wJ>at  Lc  f^ys  *"1  it  v.'ith  thcfollc^v- 


Lect.XXV.         DEMOSTHENES.  ^6^ 

for  being  the  mafler  of  the  great  Demoflhenes,  in  whom,  it 
muft  be  acknowledged,  Eloquence  flione  forth  with  higher 
fplendor,  than  perhaps  in  any  that  ever  bore  the  name  of  an 
orator,  and  whofe  manner  and  character,  therefore,  muft  de- 
ferve  our  particular  attention. 

I  fliall  not  fpend  any  time  upon  the  circumfLanccs  of  Demoft- 
henes's  Ufe ;  they  are  well  known.  The  ftrong  ambition  which 
he  difcovered  to  excel  in  the  art  of  fpeaking  ;  the  unfucccfsful- 
nefs  of  his  firft  attempts  ;  his  unwearied  pcrfeverance  In  fur- 
mounting  all  the  difidvantages  that  arofe  from  his  perfon  and 
addrefs  ;  his  fliutting  himfelf  up  in  a  cave,  that  he  might  fludjr 
witli  lefs  diftradlion  ;  his  declaiming  by  the  fea-fhore,  that  he 
might  accuftom  himfelf  to  the  noife  of  a  tumultuous  affembly, 
and  with  pebbles  in  his  mouth,  that  he  might  correft  a  defedt 
in  his  fpeech  ;  his  pra^lifing  at  home  with  a  naked  fword  hang- 
ing over  his  fiioulder,  that  he  might  check  an  ungraceful  mo- 
tion, to  which  he  was  fubjc6l ;  all  thofe  circumftances  which, 
we  learn  from  Plutarch,  are  very  encouraging  to  fuch  as  fludy 
Eloquence,  as  they  fliow^  how  far  art  and  application  may  avail, 
for  acquiring  an  excellence  which  nature  feemed  unwilling  to 
grant  us. 

Defpifing  the  affefted  and  florid  manner  which  the  rhetori- 
cians of  that  age  followed,  Demofthenes  returned  to  the 
forcible  and  manly  Eloquence  of  Pericles  j  and  ftrength  and 

vehemence 

ing  excellent  obfcrvations,  vvliich  fliould  never  be  forgotten  by  any  whoafpire 
Id  be  true  orators.  "  T«,-  /jli^toi  Kyvyy^;  tuv  •rs-Efo/r.'v  ro  v.vy.Kio\',  y.ai  t^v  c^rtuaTt(r//.u» 
rt<(  Ki^iug  TO  f/.iip«y.-)-aSh,  »v.  tSoxi/na^ov  ivKtvn  ya^  «  hatoia.  roKhaxi^  ra  gvSy.u  Tt-f  AfSfi's"? 
xa«  TV  y.oy.^i,v  KutztTci  ro  aXtiSivov.  y.fairrov  t  itz it>^Siv/hx  tv  SiaKfr.ra  Trohtrir.n,  x«« 
lyayunx,  to  o/xotCTarov  ru  Karoc  fuTiv.  (ivXiTai  Si  rfvcri;  roic  viiiy//.xa'tv  ixricSai  twv  As^"* 
i  rn  Ki^tt  TO.  vony.ara.  o-y/iCwAw  Ss  Sfi  Trcpi  yOKi/xv  xai  (icwviif  Afyovr*  )t«(  iSiarr  rov  vift 
4u_^>if  TQi^ovTi  y.iviwoj  tv  iiy.ar"'i>  to.  ko/jl^^,  xai  Sia.Tpir.a,  yai  fidpa  kiuSk  ravTi  ix. 
oic'a  rivTiva  SwoLir  «v  tto.  atr  ^nv  c:f(\iisiv  fiaXKov  S  oiSa  ori  xai  (ixafir;  ay  utria.  yivotrOm 
^apiivTiO'uoc  yep  Tra;  tv  <rir\iSv!^  y.M  xs-Xoif  yivoysvo(^,  ai'f  5v  rrpay/MX  y.ca  TToX'.yjra  rov  i\ti.<. 
Jiidic.  dc  Ifocrate,  i^S-  "  His  ftuditd  circumlkxion  ol  periods,  and  juvenile 
"  afTediatinii  cf  the  /lowers  of  Sjxech,  I  do  not  approve.  The  thought  if 
*'  freqiitntlv  made  liibfervieiit  to  the  miific  of  the  ienttnce  ;  and  elegance  is 
"  preferred  to  reafon.  Whereas,  in  every  difcourlt  where  hufinefs  and  affairs 
"  arc  corvcerned,  nature  ought  to  be  followed  and  nature  certainly  dicflates 
"  that  the  exprclGon  fliould  he  an  objcdt  fubotdinat*  to  the  fcnfe,  not  the 
"  fenfe  to  tlie  exprtflion.  When  ')ne  riles  to  give  public  counfcl  conccrninsj 
"  war  and.  peace,  or  t.Tkcn  the  chnrpe  of  a  private  man,  who  is  ffandirig  at  the 
•'  bar  to  be  tried  for  his  life,  thofe  fliidied  decorations,  thofe  theatricil  fjraccs 
"  and  juvenile  flowers  are  out  of  phice.  Jnfterd  of  being  of  fcrvicc,  they  are 
*•  detrimental  to  tlie  caufc  we  ei\  julc.  When  the  contcft;  is  of  a  ftrious  kind. 
"  ornaments,  which  at  another  time  would  have  heanty,  tlien  lofc  iheir  efl<<*l, 
"  and  prove  hoflile  to  the'  alTtclions  which  we  vilb  toraife  in  out  liuueri'' 


356  DEMOSTHENES.         Lect.  XXV. 

vdiemence  form  the  principal  cliara£leri flics  of  his  flyle. 
Ktver  had  orator  a  finer  field  than  Demofthenes  in  his  Olyn- 
tl1i2.cs  and  Philippics,  which  are  his  capital  orations  ;  and,  nc 
dosibt,  to  the  ncblenefs  of  the  fubjedl,  and  to  that  integrity  and 
paS^c  fpirit  which  eminently  breathe  in  them,  they  are  indebt- 
ed for  niuch  of  their  merit.  The  fubjedl.  is  to  roufe  the  in- 
dagnation  of  his  countrymen  againft  Philip  of  Macedon,  the 
public  enemy  of  the  liberties  of  Greece  ;  and  ta  guard  them 
agiinft  the  infidious  meafurcs,  lay  which  that  crafty  prince  en- 
deavoured to  lay  them  afieep  to  danger.  In  the  profecution  of 
this  end,  we  fee  him  taking  every  proper  method  to  animate  z. 
people,  renowned  for  juflice,  humanity,  and  valour, but  in  many 
iuftances  become  corrapt  and  degenerated  He  boldly  taxes  them 
■with  their  venality,  their  indolence,  and  indifference  to  the  pub- 
He  caufe  ;  while,  at  the  fame  time,  with  all  the  art  of  an  or- 
ator, he  recals  the  glory  of  their  ancefiors  to  their  thoughtSj 
ihows  them  that  they  are  ftilla  flourifhing  and  a  powerful  peo- 
]^e,  the  natural  protcdlors  of  the  liberty  of  Greece,  and  who 
■wanted  only  the  inclination  to  exert  themfelves,  in  order  to 
mate  Philip  tremble.  With  his  cotemporary  oratorsj  who  were 
in  Philip's  intereft,  and  who  perfuaded  the  people  to  peace,  he 
keeps  no  meafures,  but  plainly  reproaches  them  as  the  betray- 
er's of  their  country.  He  not  only  prompts  to  vigorous  con- 
d^ict,  but  he  lays  down  the  plan  of  that  condu6l  *,  he  enters  in- 
to particulars  ;  and  points  out,  with  great  exacftnefs,  the  meaf- 
TQTies  of  execution.  This  is  the  ftrain  of  thefe  orations.  They 
arc  flrongly  animated  ;  and  full  of  the  impetuofity  and  fire  of 
public  fpirit.  They  proceed  in  a  continued  train  of  induc- 
tions, confequences,  and  demonftrations,  founded  on  found  rea- 
Ibn.  The  figures  which  he  ufes,  are  never  fought  after;  but 
aliyays  rife  from  the  fubje^l.  He  employs  them  fparingly  in- 
deed ;  for  fplendor  and  ornament  are  not  the  di(lin£lions  of 
thisj  orator's  compofition.  It  is  an  energy  of  thought  pecu- 
liar to  himfelfj  which  forms  his  characlcr,  and  fets  him  above 
all  others.  He  appears  to  attend  much  more  to  things  than 
lo  Vfords.  We  forget  the  orator,  and  think  of  the  bufinefs. 
Ke  v/arms  the  mind,  and  impels  to  adlion.  He  has  no  parade 
aiid  oftentation  j  no  methods  of  infinuation  ;'  no  laboured  in- 
trcduflions ;  but  is  like  a  man  full  of  his  fubjeft,  who,  after 

preparing 


^,  :  I,ECT.  XXV.         DEMO  ST  H  E  N  E  S.  .  3^7 

■     preparing  his  audience  by  a  fentence  or  two  for  hearing  pl£ii 
truths,  enters  dire6lly  on  bufincfs. 

Demolthenes  appears  to  great  advantage,  when  contra^cd 
with  j^fchines  in  the  celebrated  oration  "  pro  Corona." 
jiElchlnes  was  his  rival  in  bufinefs,  and  perfonal  enemy  ;  and 
one  of  the  moft  diftlnguifiied  orators  of  that  age.  But  whtn 
■wc  read  the  two  orations,  ^fchines  is  feeble  in  comparifon  of 
Demofthenes,  -and  makes  much  lefs  imprcffion  on  the  miadL 
His  reafonings  concerning  the  law  that  was  in  queftion,  are 
indeed  very  fubtile  ;  but  his  inveQive  againft  Demofthenes  ts 
general  and  ill  fuppprted.  Whereas  Demofthenes  is  a  torrenft^ 
that  nothing  can  refift.  He  bears  down  his  antagonift  with 
violence  ;  he  draws  his  chara£ler  in  the  ftrongeft  colours  ; 
and  the  particular  merit  of  that  oration  is,  that  all  the  defcrip- 
tions  in  it  are  highly  pifturefque.  There  runs  thorough  it  z 
drain  of  magnanimity  and  high  honour  :  the   orator  fpealks 

.  with  that  ftrength  and  confcious  dignity  which  great  actions. 
and  public  fpirit  alone  infpire.  Both  orators  ufe  great  liber- 
ties with  one  another  •,  and,  in  general,  that  unreftrained  licenfc 
which  ancient  manners  permitted,  even  to  the  length  of  abufivc 

,  names  and  dov/nright  fcurrility,  as  appears  both  here  and  jk 
Cicero's  Philippics,  hurts  and  offends  a  modern  ear.  What 
thofe  ancient  orators  gained  by  fuch  a  manner  in  point  of  free- 
dom and  boldnefs,  is  more  than  compenfated  by  want  of  digni- 
ty -,  which  feems  to  give  an  advantage,  in  this  refpedl,  to  ths 
greater  decency  of  modern  fpeaking. 

The  ftyle  of  Demofthanes  is  ftrong  and  concife,  thougfe 
fometimes,  it  muft  not  be  diffembled,  harfli  and  abrupt.     His 

.  words  are  very  expreffive  ;  his  arrangement  is  firm  and  manLyj 
and  though  far  from,  being  unmufical,  yet  it  fccms  difficult  to 
find  in  him  that  ftudied,  but  concealed  number,  and  rythmus, 
which  fome  of  the  ancient  critics  are  fond  of  attributing  p? 
him.  Negligent  of  thofe  llefTer  graces,  one  would  rather  con- 
ceive him  to  have  aimed  at  that  fublime  which  lies  in  fentimcnt. 
His  action  and  pronunciation  are  recorded  to  have  been  imcom- 
monly  vehement  and  ardent ;  which,  from  the  manner  of  his 
compofition,  we  are  naturally  led  to  believe.  The  chara^lex- 
which  one  forms  of  him,  from  reading  his  v/orks,  is  of  the 
auftere,  rather  than  the  gentle  kind.     He  is  on  every  occafioiXt 

!:v;ivc. 


368  DEMOSTHENES.         Lect.  XXV. 

grave,  feriou-s,  pafHonate  -,  takes  every  thing  on  a  high  tone  ; 
never  lets  himfelf  down,  nor  attempts  any  thing  like  pleafantry. 
If  any  fault  can  be  found  with  his  admirable  Eloquence,  it  is, 
that  he  fometimes  borders  on  the  hard  and  dry.  He  may  be 
thought  to  want  fmoothnefs  and  grace  ;  which  Dionyfius  of 
HalicarnafTus  attributes  to  his  imitating  too  clofely  the  manner 
of  Thucydides,  who  was  his  great  model  for  ftyle,  and  whofe 
hiftory  he  is  faid  to  have  written  eight  times  over  with  his  own 
hand.  But  thefe  defefls  are  far  more  than  compenfated,  by 
that  admirable  and  niafterly  force  of  mafculine  Eloquence, 
which,  as  it  overpowered  all  who  heard  it,  cannot,  at  this  day^ 
be  read  without  emotion. 

After  the  days  of  Demoflhenes,  Greece  loft  her  liberty. 
Eloquence  of  courfe  languifhed,  and  relapfed  again  into  the 
feeble  manner  introduced  by  the  rhetoricians  and  fophifts. 
Demetrius  Phalcreus,  who  lived  in  the  next  age  to  Demoft- 
henes,  attained  indeed  fome  charader,  but  he  is  reprefented 
to  us  as  a  flowery,  rather  than  a  perfuafive  ipeaker,  who  aimed 
at  grace  rather  than  fubftance.  "  Dele£labat  Athenienfes,'* 
fays  Cicero,  "  magis  quam  inflammabat."  **  He  amufed  the 
*'  Athenians,  rather  than  warmed  them."  And  after  his  timejj 
we  hear  of  no  more  Grecian  orators  of  any  note. 


LECTURE 


LECTURE         XXVI. 


HISTORY  OF  ELOQTJENCE  CONTINUED.     ROMAN 
ELOqiJENCE.   CICERO.   MODERN  ELOQUENCE. 

JnL  AVING  treated  of  the  rife  of  Eloquence,  and  of 
its  ftate  among  the  Greeks,  we  now  proceed  to  confider  its 
progrefs  among  the  Romans,  where  we  (liall  find  one  model, 
at  leaft,  of  Eloquence,  in  its  moft  fplendid  and  illuftrious  form. 
The  Romans  were  long  a  martial  rf!ltion,  altogether  rude,  and 
linilcillcd  in  arts  of  any  kind.  Arts  were  late  introduced 
among  them  *,  they  were  not  known  till  after  the  conqueft  of 
Greece  i  and  the  Romans  always  acknowledged  the  Grecians 
as  their  mailers  in  every  part  of  learning. 

Graecia  capta  ferum  vi6lorem  cepit,  &  artes 

Intalit  a  greili  Latio.* HoR.  Epi£t.  ad  Aug. 

As  the  Romans  derived  their  Eloquence,  poetry,  and  learn- 
ing from  the  Greeks,  fo  they  muft  be  confefled  to  be  far  infe- 
rior to  them  in  genius  for  all  thefe  accomplifhments.  They  " 
were  a  more  grave  and  magnificent,  but  a  lefs  acute  and  fpright- 
ly  people.  They  had  neither  the  vivacity  nor  the  fenlil^ity  of 
the  Greeks  ;  their  pafiions  were  not  fo  eafily  moved,  nor  their 
conceptions  fo  lively  ;  in  comparifon  of  them,  they  were  a 
phlegmatic  nation.  Their  language  refembled  their  chara£ler  ; 
it  was  regular,  firm,  and  (lately  j  but  wanted  that  fimple  and 
CxprefTive  naivete,  and,  in  particular,  that  flexibility  to  fuit 
every  different  mode  and  fpecies  of  compofition,  for  which 

the 

•  "When  conquer'd  Greece  brought  in  her  captive  arts, 

6ne  triunipl\d  o'tr  her  lavage  conqueror's  hearts  ; 

'I'aught  our  rough  verfe  its  numbers  to  refine, 

AuJ  our  rude  ftyle  with  elegance  to  lliiue.  Fr.vkcjs. 


J7* 


ROMAN   ELOQUENCE.      Lect.  XXVI. 


the  Greek   tongue  is  dldinguhlied  above  that  of  every  other 
country. 

Oraiis  inQ;en;um,  Graiis  dadit  ore  rotundo 

Mufa  locjui* Ars  Poet. 

And  hence,  when  we  compare  together  the  various  rival 
produ6lions  of  Greece  and  Rome,  we  fhall  always  find  this 
diflin£lion  obtain,  that  in  the  Greek  productions  there  is  more 
native  genius  ;  in  the  Roman,  more  regularity  and  art.  What 
the  Greeks  invented,  the  Romans  polifhed  j  the  one  was  the 
original,  rough  fometimes,  and  incorrect  ;  the  other,  a  finifh- 
ed  copy. 

As  the  Roman  government,  during  the  republic,  was  of  the 
popular  kind,  there  is  no  doubt  but  that,  in  tb.e  hands  of  the 
leading  men,  public  fpeaking  became  early  an  engine  of  gov- 
ernment, and  was  employed  for  gaining  didinclion  and  power. 
But  in  the  rude  unpoliflied  times  of  the  State,  their  fpeakinjij 
was  hardly  of  that  fort  that  could  be  called  Eloquence.  Though 
Cicero,  in  his  Treatife,  "de  Claris  Oratoribus,"  endeavours  to 
give  Ibme  reputation  to  the  elder  Cato,  and  thofe  who  were 
his  cotemporaries,  yet  he  acknowledges  it  to  have  been  "  Af- 
*'  perum  et  hoinidum  genus  dicendi,"  a  rude  and  harfh  drain 
of  xpeech.  It  was  not  till  a  fliort  time  preceding  Cicero's  age, 
that  the  Roman  orators  rofe  into  any  note.  Cr-lTus  and  An- 
tonius,  two  of  the  fpcakers  in  the  dialogue  De  Oratore,  appear 
to  have  been  the  molt  eminent,  vvhofe  different  manners  Cicero 
defcribes  with  great  beauty  in  that  dialogue,  and  in  his  other 
rhetorical  works.  But  as  none  of  their  produdtions  are  extant, 
nor  any  of  Hortenfius's,  who  was  Cicero's  cotemporary  and 
rival  at  the  bar,  it  is  needlefs  to  tranfcribe  from  Cicero's  writ- 
ings the  account  which  he  gives  of  thofe  great  men,  and  of  the 
charadler  of  tlieir  Eloquence,  f 

The 

*  To  her  lov'd  Greeks  the  A'lute  indulgent  gave. 

To  her  l.ov'd  Greeks  with  gtcatncfs  to  conceive  ; 

And  ia  liihlinier  tone  their  language  raife  : 

Her  Giceks  were  only  covetous  of  praife.  Francis. 

f  f^uch  as  are  defirous  of  particular  inforsnation  on  tliis  head,  had  better 
hivc  rccourfc  to  the  original,  by  reading  Cicero's  three  books  de  Oratore,  and 
his  other  two  treatifes,  entitled,  tiix.  one,  Brutus,  Sive  de  Claris  Oratoribus; 
the  other,  Orator,  ad  M,  Brutum  ;  ^vhich,  on  fcveral  accounts,  well  deferve 
ptrufal. 


Lect.XXVI.  CICERO.  371 

The  obje£l  in  this  period,  moft  worthy  to  draw  our  attention, 
is  Cicero  himfclf;  whofe  name  alone  fuggerts  everything  that 
is  fplcndid  in  oratory.  With  the  hiftory  of  his  life,  and  with 
his  chara£ler,  as  a  man  and  a  politician,  we  have  not  at  prefent 
any  direct  concern.  We  confider  him  only  as  an  cIoo,uent 
Ipeaker ;  and,  in  this  view,  it  is  our  bufinefs  to  remark  both 
his  virtues,  and  his  defeats,  if  he  has  any.  His  virtues  are, 
beyond  controverfy,  eminently  great.  In  all  his  orations  there 
is  high  art.  He  begins  generally,  with  a  regular  exordium  j 
and  with  much  preparation  and  infniuation  prepoflefles  the 
hearers,  and  ftudies  to  gain  their  afFeftions.  His  method  is 
clear  and  his  arguments  are  arranged  with  gi-eat  propriety. 
His  method  is  indeed  more  clear  than  that  of  Demofthenes  j 
and  this  is  one  advantage  which  he  has  over  him.  We  find 
every  thing  in  its  proper  place  ;  he  never  attempts  to  move,  ^ 
till  he  has  endeavoured  to  convince;  and' in  moving,  efpecially 
the  fofter  paflions,  he  is  very  fuccefsful.  No  man  that  ever 
wrote,  knew  the  power  and  force  of  v/ords  better  than  Cicero. 
He  rolls  them  along  with  the  greateft  beauty  and  pomp  ;  and, 
in  the  ftruflure  of  his  fentences,  is  curious  and  exa6l  to  the 
higheft  degree.  He  is  always  full  and  flowing,  never  abrupt. 
H-e  is  a  great  amplifier  of  every  fubjedl  ,•  magnificent,  and  in 
his  fentiments  highly  moral.  His  manner  is  on  the  wholo  - 
diffufe,  yet  it  is  often  happily  varied,  and  fuited  to  the  fubjedt^ 
In  his  four  orations,  for  inftance,  agaJnft  Catiline,  the  tono 
and  ftyle  of  each  of  them,  prjrticularly  the  firft  and  laft,  is  verv 
different,  and  accommodated  with  a  great  deal  of  judgment  tar 
the  occafion,  and  the  Ctuation  in  which  they  were  fpoken. 
When  a  great  public  objcft  roufed  his  mind,  and  demanded' 
indignation  and  force,  he  departs  confidcrably  from  that  loofa 
and  declamatory  manner  to  which  he  inclines  at  other  times, 
and  becomes  exceedingly  cogent  and  vehement.  This  is  tho 
,  cafe  in  his  orations  againit  Anthony,  and  in  thofe  two  againit 
Verres  and  Catiline. 

Together  with  thofc  high  qualities  which  Cicero  pofTcffes, 
he  is  not  exempt  from  certain  defeats,  of  which  it  is  neceffary 
to  take  notice.  For  the  Ciceronian  Eloquence  is  a  pattern  fo 
dazzling  by  its  beauties,  that,  if  not  examined  with  accuracy 
and  judgment,  it  is  apt  to  betray  the  unwary  into  a  faulty  im- 
itation ; 


37^  CICERO.  Lect.  XXVI. 

itation  ;  and  I  am  of  opinion,  that  it  has  fometimes  produced 
this  effect.  In  moft  of  his  orations,  efpecially  thofe  compofed 
in  the  earlier  part  of  his  life,  there  is  too  much  art ;  even  carri- 
ed the  length  of  oftentation.  There  is  too  vifible  a  parade  of 
Eloquence.  He  feems  often  to  aim  at  obtaining  admiration, 
rather  than  at  operating  convi£tion,  by  what  he  fays.  Hence, 
on  fome  occafions,  he  is  fliowy  rather  than  folid  ;  and  diffufe, 
■where  he  ought  to  have  been  preffing.  His  fentences  are,  at 
all  times,  round  and  fonorous;  they  cannot  be  accufed  of  mo- 
notony, for  they  pofiefs  variety  of  cadence  ;  but,  from  too 
great  a  ftudy  of  magnificence,  he  is  fometimes  deficient  in 
ftrength.  On  all  occafions,  where  there  is  the  lead  room  for 
it,  he  is  full  of  himfelf.  His  great  afiions,  and  the  real  fervices 
which  he  had  performed  to  his  country,  apologize  for  this  in 
part  i  ancient  manners,  too,  impofed  fewer  reftraints  from  the 
fide  of  decorum  ;  but,  even  after  thefe  allov/ances  made,  Cice- 
ro's oftentation  of  himfelf  cannot  be  wholly  palliated  ;  and  his 
orations,  indeed  all  his  works,  leave  on  our  minds  the  impref- 
£on  of  a  good  man,  but  withal,  of  a  vain  man. 

The  defeats  which  we  have  now  taken  notice  of  in  Cicero's 
Eloquence,  were  not  unobferved  by  his  own  cotemporaries. 
This  we  learn  from  Q^intilian,  and  from  the  author  of  the 
dialogue,  "  de  Caufis  Corruptse  Eloquentije."  Brutus,  we  are 
informed,  called  him,  "  fra£lum  et  elumbem,"  broken  and 
enervated.  "  Suoruni  temporum  homines,"  fays  Quintilian, 
*'  incefiere  audebant  eum  ut  tumidiorem  &  Afianum,  et  re- 
•*  dundantem,  et  in  repetitionibus  nimium,  et  in  falibus  ali- 
**  quando  frigid um,  &  in  compofitione  fra^Vum  et  exfultantem, 
*'  &  pene  viro  molliorem."*  Thefe  cenfures  v.'ere  undoubt™ 
edly  carried  too  far  j  and  favour  of  malignity  and  perfonal  en- 
mity. They  faw  his  defe<f!l-s,  but  they  aggravated  them  ;  and 
the  fource  of  thefe  aggravntions  can  be  traced  to  the  difference 
which  prevailed  in  Rome,  in  Cicero's  days,  between  two  great 
parties,  with  refpedl  to  Eloquence,  The  "  Attici/'  and  the 
**  Afiani."  The  former,  who  call  themfclves  the  Attics,  were 
the  patrons  of  what  they  conceived  to  be  the  chafte,  fimple  and 

natural 

*  "  His  cotemporaries  ventured  to  reproach  him  ss  fwcllirg,  redundant  and 
••  Afiatic  ;  too  frtquf-nt  in  repetitions;  in  his  attempts  tnv^rcis  nit  ftimf  times 
"  cold  ;  and  in  the  fir.iin  of  hu  ccmpofuioa,  I'tcblc,  dtiuhrty,  aud  moic  ciTtm- 
"  inate  than  became  a  nian." 


Lect.XXVI.      comparison   of,   &c.  373 

natural  ftyle  of  Eloquence  ;  from  -u'hich  they  accufed  Cicero 
as  having  departed,  and  as  leaning  to  the  florid  Afiatic  mannerc 
In  feveral  of  his  rhetorical  works,  particularly  in  his  *'  Orator  ad 
*'  Erutum,"  Cicero,  in  his  turn,  endeavours  to  expofe  this  fed, 
as  fubftitutiug  a  frigid  and  jejune  manner,  in  place  of  the  true 
Attic  Eloquence  -,  and  contends,  that  his  ovi^n  conipofition  wa* 
formed  upon  the  real  Attic  Style.  In  the  10th  chapter  of  the 
lafl:  book  of  Quintilian's  Inditutions,  a  full  account  is  given  of 
the  difputes  between  thefe  two  parties  ;  and  of  the  Rhodian, 
or  middle  manner  between  the  Attics  and  the  Afiatics.  Q^in-  , 
tilian  himfclf  declares  on  Cicei'o's  fide  ;  and,  wlicther  it  be  called 
Attic  or  Afiatic,  prefers  the  full,  the  copious,  and  the  amplifying 
ftyle.  He  concludes  with  this  very  juft  obfervation  :  "  Plures 
"  funt  Eloquentije  fades;  fed  (lultiflimum  eft  qus^rere, ad  quam 
**  reQurus  fe  fit  orator  ;  cum  omnis  fpecies,  quae  modo  re«SH 
*'  eft,  habeat  ufum.  Utetur  enim,  ut  res  exiget,  omnibus  j 
*'  n'ec  pro  caufa  modo,  fed  pro  partibus  caufae."* 

On  the  fubjeft  of  comparing  Cicero  and  Demofthenes,  much 
has  been  faid  by  critical  writers.  The  different  manners  of 
thefe  two  princes  of  Eloquence,  and  the  dlftinguiftiing  charac- 
ters of  each,  are  fo,  ftrongly  marked  in  their  writings,  that  tlie 
comparifon  is,  in  many  refpects,  obvious  and  eafy.  The  cliar- 
aifler  of  Demofthenes  is  vigour  and  aufterity  ;  that  of  Cicero  Is 
genilcnefs  and  infaiuation.  In  th.c  one,  you  find  more  manli- 
Icfs  -,  in  the  other,  more  ornament.  Tlie  one  is  more  harfl^, 
but  more  fpirited  and  cogent  ;  the  other  more  agreeable,  but 
wiflial  loofer  and  weaker. 

To  account  for  this  difference,  witliout  any  prejudice  to  Cic- 
ero, it  has  been  faid,  tliat  we  muft  look  to  the  nature  of  their 
different  auditories ;  tliat  the  refined  Athenians  followed  with 
cafe  the  concife  and  convincing  Eloquence  of  Demofthenes  ; 
but  that  a  manner  more  popular,  more  fiowery,  and  declama- 
tory, was  requiiite  in  fpeaking  to  tlic  Romans,  a  people  lefs  a- 
cute,  and  leCs  acquainted  with  the  arts  of  fpeech.  But  this  is 
not  {;uisfa61ory.  For  we  muft  obferve,  that  the  Greek  orator 
fpoke  much  oftcner  before  a  mixed  muhitude,  than  the  Roman. 

Almoft 
*  "  Eloquence  admits  of  many  <1ifrcrcrt  forms  ;  and  nothing  can  he  more 
"  foolifli  than  to  int]iiirc,  by  wliitii  of  duni  an  orator  is  to  rtgiilutc  his  com- 
"  poUlion  ;  iJnce  tvcry  form,  vhirh  is  initftif  jnft,  has  its  own  place  and  ufc. 
•*  The  orator,  according  as  circiinifJanrea  re  quire,  ivill  cn->plc)y  ilitm  all ;  fuit- 
"  ing  thtm  not  only  toThe  can!e  or  fuhitift  ot  whidi  he  ticats,  but  to  the  dif- 
»'  fercut  parts  ol  thjt  (u^'jt.cfl." 


374  COMPARISON  OF        Ucr.XXVl, 

Almoft  all  the  public  bufinefs  of  Athens  was  tranfa£led  hi 
popular  aflemblies.  The  common  people  were  his  hearers, 
ami  his  judges.  Whereas  Cicero  generally  addrelTed  himfelf 
to  the  "  Patres  Confcripti,"  or  in  criminal  trials  to  the  Prxtor, 
and  the  felect  judges  ;  and  it  cannot  be  imagined,  that  the 
perfons  of  higheft  rank,  and  befl  education  in  Rome,  required 
a  more  diftufe  manner  of  pleading  than  the  common  citizens 
of  Athens,  in  order  to  make  them  underfland  the  caufe,  or 
relifli  the  fpeaker.  Perhaps  we  (hall  come  nearer  the  truth, 
by  obferving,  that  to  unite  together  all  the  qualities,  without 
the  leaft  exception,  tJiat  form  a  perfeQ  orator,  and  to  excel 
equally  in  each  of  thofe  qualities,  is  not  to  b-c  expecled  from 
the  limited  powers  of  human  genius.  The  higheil  degree  of 
flrength  is,  I  fufpe£t,  never  found  united  with  the  higheft  de- 
gree of  fmoothnefs  and  ornament  ;  equal  attentions  to  both 
are  incompatible  ;  and  the  genius  that  carries  ornament  to  its 
utmoU  length,  is  not  of  fuch  a  kind,  as  can  excel  as  much  in 
vigour.  For  there  plainly  lies  the  charadleriftical  difference 
between  thefe  two  celebrated  orators. 

It  is  a  difadvantage  to  Dcmofthenes,  that,  beSdes  his  con- 
cifenefs,  which  fometimes  produces  obfcurity,  the  language, 
in  which  he  writes,  is  lefs  familiar  to  moft  of  us  than  the  Latin, 
and  that  we  are  lefs  acquainted  with  the  Greek  antiquities 
than  we  arc  with  the  Roman.  We  read  Cicero  with  more 
tafe,  and  of  courfe  with  more  pleai'ure.  Independent  of  this 
circumflance,  too,  he  is,  no  doubt,  in  himfelf,  a  move  agreeable 
writer  than  the  other.  But  notwithftanding  this  advantage,  5 
zim  of  opinion,  that  were  the  Hate  in  danger,  or  feme  great  pub.». 
lie  interell  at  llake,  which  drew  the  ferious  attention  of  men, 
an  oration  in  the  fpirit  and  flrain  of  DemofthcRes,  woukii 
have  more  weight,  and  produce  greater  effetSlr,  than  one  in  the- 
Ciceronlan  manner.  "Were  Denioflhenes's  Philippics  fpoken. 
in  a  Britifh  alTembly,  in  a  fimilar  conjundare  of  affairs,  they 
would  convince  and  perfuade  at  this  day.  The  rapid  flyle,  the> 
vehement  teafoning,  the  difdain,  anger,  boldnefs,  freedom, 
which  perpetually  animate  them,  would  render  their  fuccefs- 
infallible  over  any  modern  afTcmblyi  I  queftion  whether  the 
fame  can  be  faid  of  Cicero's  orations  ;  whofe  Eloquence,  how- 
ever beautiful,  and  however  well  fuited  to  the  Roman  tafte, 

yet. 


Lect.XXVI.    CICERO  and  DEMOSTHENES.  37^- 

yet  borders  oftener  on  declamation,  and  is  more  remote  from 
the  manner  in  which  we  now  expedi  to  hear  real  bufinefs  and 
caufcs  of  importance  treated.* 

In  comparing  Demofthenes  and  Cicero,  moft  of  the  French 
Critics  incline  to  give  the  preference  to  the  latter.  P.  Rapin 
the  Jefuit,  in  the  parallels  which  he  has  drawn  between  fome  of 
the  moll  eminent  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  uniformly  de- 
cides in  favour  of  the  Roman.  For  the  preference  which  he 
gives  to  Cicero,  he  affigns,  and  lays  ftrefs  on  one  reafon  of  a 
nretty  extraordinary  nature  ;  viz.  that  Demoflhenes  could  not 
pofhbly  have  fo  complete  an  infight  as  Cicero  into  the  manners 
and  paffions  of  men  :  Why  ? — IJecaufe  he  had  not  the  advan- 
tage of  perufing  Ariftotle's  treatife  of  Rhetoric  ;  wherein,  fays 
our  critic,  he  has  fully  laid  open  that  myilery  :  and,  to  fup- 
port  this  weighty  argument,  he  enters  into  a  controverfy  with 
A.  Gellius,  in  order  to  prove  that  Ariftotle's  Rhetoric  was  not 
publiihed  till  after  Demollhenes  had  fpoken,  at  lead,  his  moft 
confiderable  orations.  Nothing  can  be  more  childifh.  Such 
orators  as  Cicero  and  Demofthenes,  derived  their  knowledge 
of  the  human  pafTions,  and  their  power  of  moving  them,  from 
higher  fources  than  any  treatife  of  Rhetoric.  One  French 
critic  has  indeed  departed  from  the  common  track  ;  and,  after 
beftowing  on  Cicero  thofe  juft  praifes  to  which  the  confent  of 
fo  many  ages  fhows  him  to  be  entitled,  concludes,  however, 
with  giving  tlie  palm  to  Demoflhenes.  This  is  Fenelon,  the 
famous  archbifliop  of  Cambray,  and  author  of  Telemachus  ; 
himfelf  furely  no  enemy  to  all  the  graces  and  flowers  of  com- 
pofition.  It  is  in  his  Reflections  on  Rhetoric  and  Poetry,  that 
he  gives  this  judgment  ;  a  fmall  traft,  commonly  publiflied 
along  with  his  dialogues  on  Eloquencs.f     Thefe  dialogues  and 

rciledlions 

*  In  this  judgment  I  concur  with  Mr.  David  Hume,  in  his  eflay  upon  EIo- 
oucnce.  He  gives  it  as  his  opinfou,  that,  of  all  human  prodiiAions,  the  on- 
ti.nis  (if  DenioIHients  prcfcnt  to  us  tho  moiieh  which  approach  the  ncareft  to 
ptrfeAion. 

j-  As  hi«  expredions  arc  remarkably  happy  and  I)eautifu(,  thr  paflage  here 
referred  to  dcftrvcs  to  be  inferted.  "  Je  ne  trains  pas  de  dire,  que  Dcinoflliene 
"  me  paroit  fupcritur  a  Ciccron.  Jc  proteflc  que  perfonne  n'admire  plus 
*•  Ciccron  tjiiejc  fais.  II  cmhellit  tout  cc  qu'il  touche.  II  fait  lionncur  a  la  pa- 
•'  role.  11  fait  des  mots  cc  qu'imi  autre  n'en  r.<i!roit  faire.  II  a  jc  ne  fai  coni- 
"  Lien  de  fortes  d'clprirs.     II  eft  mcme  court,  t^-  vrhcmcnt,  toutes  Ics  fois  qti'il 

veut 


376     DECAY  OF  ROMAN  ELOQUENCE.  Lect.  XXVI. 

reflexions  are  particularly  worthy  of  peruf.il,  as  containing,  I 
think,  the  jutteft  ideas  on  the  fubjcCl,  that  arc  to  be  met  with 
in  any  modern  critical  writer. 

The  reign  of  Eloquence,  among  the  Romans,  was  very 
(hort.  After  the  age  of  Cicero,  It  languifli'^d,  or  rather  ex- 
pired ;  and  we  have  no  reafon  to  wonder  at  this  being  the 
cafe.  For  not  only  was  liberty  entirely  extinguifhed,  but 
arbitrary  power  felt  in  its  heavlelt  and  mod  oppreflive 
weight  :  Providence  having,  In  its  warmth,  delivered  over  the 
Roman  empire  to  a  fuccelRon  of  fome  of  the  moft  execrable 
tyrants  that  ever  difgraced  and  fcourged  the  human  race. 
Under  their  government,  It  was  naturally  to  be  expeiited  that 
tafte  would  be  corrupted,  and  genius  difcouraged.  Some  of 
the  ornamental  arts,  lefs  Intimately  conne6led  with  liberty, 
continued,  for  a  while,  to  prevail  ;  but  for  that  mafcullne 
Eloquence,  which  had  exerclfed  itfelf  in  the  fenate,  and  In  the 
public  affairs,  there  was  no  longer  any  place.  The  change 
which  was  produced  on  Eloquence,  by  the  nature  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  the  Rate  of  the  public  manners,  Is  beautifully 
defcribed  In  the  Dialogue  de  Caufis  corrupta;  Eloquentlse  which 
is  attributed  by  fome,  to  Tacitus,  by  others,  to  Quintlllan. 
l^uxury,  effeminacy,  and  flattery,  overwhelmed  all.  The 
forum,  where  fo  many  great  afiairs  had  been  tranfa£ted,  was 
now  become  a  defart.  Private  caufes  were  fliU  pleaded  ;  but 
the  public  was  no  longer  interefted  ;  nor  any  general  attention 
drawn  to  what  pafllcd  there  :  "  Unus  Inter  hsec,  et  alter,  dlcen- 
'*  tl  affiillt ;  et  res  velut  in  felltudlne  agltur.  Orator!  autem 
**  clamore  plaufuque  opus  eft,  et  velut  quodam  theatro,  qualia 
*' quotidle  autiquls  oratorlbus  contlngebant  j  cum  tot  ac  tarn 
*'  noblles    forum   coardlarent  ;  cum  clientele;,   &   trlbus,    & 

"  munlciplorum 

"  veut  I'eftre  ;  contre  Catiline,  contre  Verres,  contre  Autoine.  Mais  on  re- 
"  marque  quel^ue  parure  dans  fon  difcou.s.  L'art  y  eft  n^e^vcilleux  ;  ir.dis 
"  on  I'catrevoit..  L'oratear  en  penl'ant  au  falut  de  la  repul^lique,  ne  s'ouhlic 
"  pas,  et  ne  fe  laifTe  pas  oublier.  Demofthene  pariot  fortir  de  I'oi,  et  nc  voir 
"  que  1?.  patric.  II  ne  cherche  point  Ic  beau  ;  il  le  fait,  fans  y  penfer.  II  eR 
"  au-delTus  de  I'admiration.  II  fe  fert  de  la  parole,  comme  un  homme  modcRe 
"  de  fon  habit,  pour  fe  couvrir.  II  tonne  ;  il  foudroye.  C'eft  un  torrent  qui 
«  eatraine  tout.  On  ne  peut  le  critiquer,  par  cequ'oc  efl  faifi.  Oji  penfc  aur 
"  chofes  qu'il  dit,  &  noa  a  fes  paroles.  On  le  pcrd  de  vue.  On  n'eit  occapc 
"  que  de  Philippe  qui  envahit  tout,  Je  fuis  channe  de  ces  deuv  oiateurs  { 
"  mais  j'avoue  que  je  fuis  moins  touche  de  l'art  iniini,  et  de  laniagniitquc  ei- 
"  o^'iencs  de  Ciciroa,  que  dc  h  rapidc  fnnplicite  dc  Demofl:l;.ene." 


Lect.XXVI.    decay  of  ROMAN  eloquence.    377 

**  municipiorum  iegaiioncs,  periclitantibus  aiTifberent  5  cum  in 
*'  plerifque  judiciis  crederet  populus  Romanus  fua  intercfle 
**  quid  judicaretur."  * 

In  the  fchools  of  the  declaimcrs,  the  corruption  of  Elo- 
quence was  completed.  Imaginary  and  fantattic  fubjeiSts,  fuch 
as  had  no  real  life,  or  bufinefs,  were  made  the  themes  of  dec- 
lamation J  and  all  manner  of  falfe  and  afFe£lcd  ornaments 
were  brought  into  vogue  :  "  Pace  veftra  liceat  dixiffe,"  fays 
Pctronius  Arbiter,  to  the  declaimcrs  of  his  time,  "  primi  om- 
*'  nem  Eloquentiam  perdidiftis.  Levibus  enim  ac  inanibus 
"  fonis  iudibria  quxdam  excidanto,  effeciftis  ut  corpus  orationis 
*'  evervaretur  atque  caderet.  Et  ideo  ego  exiflimo  adolefccn- 
**  tulos  in  fcholis  iluItiiTnnos  fieri,  quia  nihil  ex  iis,  qua:  in  ufu 
"  habemuG,  aut  vident  •,  fed  pirutas  cum  catenis  in  littore 
"  ftantes  j  et  tyrannos  edi£i:a  fcribentes  quibus  imperent  filiis 
"  ut  patium  fuorum  capita  praecidant ;  fed  rcfponfa,  in  pefli« 
"  lentia  data,  ut  virgincs  tres  aut  plures  immolentur  5  fed  mel- 
*'  litos  verborum  globulos,  &  omnia  quafi  papavere,  et  fefamo 
**  fpvirfa.  Qui  inter  hsec  nutriuntur,  non  magis  fapere  poiTunt, 
*'  quam  bene  olere  qui  in  culina  habitant."f  In  the  hands  of 
the  Greek  rhetoricians,  the  manly  and  fenfible  Eloquence  of 
their  firil  noted  fpeakers,  degenerated,  as  I  formerly  (howed,  iiijjo 

fubtility 

*  "  The  Courts  of  Judicature  are,  at  prefcnt,  fo  nnfrcqncntcd  that  the 
"  orator  Iccms  to  ftand  alone,  and  talk  to  bare  walls.  But  Eloquence  rejoice* 
"  ill  the  liurfts  of'loud  applaufc,  and  exults  in  a  full  audience  ;  fuch  as  uJcd  to 
"  prefs  round  the  ancient  orators,  when  the  forum  flood  crowded  with  nobles  - 
"  when  a  numerous  retinue  of  clients,  when  foreign  anvbalFadors,  when  tribes 
"  and  whole  cities  airifted  at  the  debate;  and  when,  in  many  trials,  the  Ro- 
"  man  people  underftood  thenifelves  to  be  concerned  in  the  event." 

•j-  "  With  your  permilTion,  I  mufl  be  allowed  to  fay,  tiiat  you  have  been  the 
"  firft  dellroyers  of  all  true  Eloquence.  Far,  by  thofc  mock  fubjedls,  oa 
"  which  ynu  employ  your  empty  and  immcaning  compolltions,  yon  have  ener- 
"  vated  and  overthrown  all  that  is  manly  and  fubftantial  in  oratory.  I  caimot 
"  but  conclude,  that  the  youth  whom  you  educate,  muft  be  totallv  perverted 
"  in  your  fchools,  by  hearing  and  feeing  nothin<^  which  h;is  any  aih'nity  to  real 
"  life,  or  human  affairs  ;  but  (lories  of  pirates  ftandmgon  the  ihure,  provided 
"  with  chains  for  loading  their  captives,  and  of  tyrants  iffiiing  their  edidls,  by 
"  which  children  are  commanded  to  cut  ofFthc  heads  of  their  parents  ;  but 
"  rcfponfes  given  by  oracles  in  the  time  of  peftilence,  that  feveral  virgins  mufl 
"  be  facrificcd  ;  hut  glittering  ornaments  of  phrafc,  and  a  ftyle  highly  fpiced,  if 
"  we  may  fay  fo,  with  altl-tfted  conceits.  They  who  arc  educated  in  the  midd 
"  of  fuch  fJudies,  can  no  more  acquits  a  good  uAc,  than  they  can  ^mcll  fvvcct 
«»  who  dwell  pcrpetu^iily  in  a  kitchen." 

A  A  a 


378        ELOQITENCE  OF  THE  FATHERS.  Lect.  XXVL 

fubtility  and  fophidry  ;  in  the  hands  of  the  Roman  declaim- 
ers,  it  pafled  into  the  quaint  and  affe6led  ;  into  point  and  an- 
tithefis.  This  corrupt  manner  begins  to  appear  in  the  writings 
of  Seneca  ;  and  fhows  itfelf,  alfo,  in  the  famous  panegyric  of 
Piiny  the  Younger  on  Trajan,  which  may  be  confidered  as  the 
laft  effort  of  Roman  oratory.  Though  the  author  was  a  man 
of  genius,  yet  it  is  deficient  in  nature  and  eafe.  "We  fee, 
throughout  the  whole,  a  perpetual  attempt  to  depart  from  the 
ordinary  way  of  thinking,  and  to  fupport  a  forced  elevation. 

In  the  decline  of  the  Roman  Empire,  the  introdu£lion  of 
Chriftianity  gave  rife  to  a  new  fpecies  of  Eloquence,  in  the 
apologies,  fermons,  and  paftoral  writings  of  the  Fathers  of 
the  Church.  Among  the  Latin  Fathers,  La6lantius  and  Mi- 
nut  ius  Felix,  are  the  mofl:  remarkable  for  purity  of  Style  ; 
and,  in  a  later  age,  the  famous  St.  Augufline  pofleffes  a  con- 
fiderable  fliare  of  fprightlinefs  and  flrength.  But  none  of  the 
Fathers  afford  any  juft  models  of  Eloquence.  Their  Language, 
as  foon  as  we  defcend  to  the  third  or  fourth  century,  becomes 
harfh  ;  and  they  are,  in  general,  infe£led  with  the  tafte  of  that 
age,  a  love  offwoln  and  drained  thoughts,  and  of  the  play  of 
words.  Among  the  Greek  Fathers,  the  moft  diflinguifhed, 
by  far,  for  his  oratoric^il  merit,  is  St.  Chryfoftom.  Kis  Lan- 
guage is  pure  ;  his  ftyle  highly  figured.  He  is  copious, 
fmootli,  and  fometimes  pathetic.  But  he  retains,  at  the  fame 
time,  much  of  that  charaftcr  which  has  been  always  attributed 
to  the  Afiatic  Eloquence,  diffufe  and  redundant  to  a  great  de- 
gree, and  often  overwrought  and  tumid.  He  may  be  read, 
however,  with  advantage,  for  the  Eloquence  of  the  pulpit,  as 
being  freer  from  falfe  ornaments  than  the  Latin  Fathers. 

As  there  is  nothing  more  that  occurs  to  me,  deferving  par- 
ticular attention  in  the  middle  age,  I  pafs  now  to  the  ftate  of 
Eloquence  in  modern  times.  Here,  it  muit  be  confefTed,  that, 
in  no  European  nation,  public  fpeaking  has  been  confidered  as 
fo  great  an  objedl,  or  been  cultivated  with  fo  much  care,  as  in 
Greece  or  Rome.  Its  reputation  has  never  been  fo  high  j  its 
effects  have  never  been  fo  confiderabie  ;  nor  has  tliat  high  and 
fublime  kind  of  it,  which  prevailed  in  thofc  ancient  dates,  been 
fo  much  as  aimed  at :  notwithftanding,  too,  that  a  new  profel- 
fion  has  been  eftabUfhsd,  which  gives  peculiar  advantages  to 

oratory, 


Lect.XXVI.      modern  ELOQUENCE.  379 

oratory,  and  affords  it  the  noblefl  field  j  I  mean,  that  of  the 
church.  The  genius  of  the  world  feems,  in  this  refpetl,  to 
have  undergone  feme  alteration.  The  two  countries  where  we 
might  expe£l  to  find  molt  of  the  fpirit  of  Eloquence,  are  France 
and  Great  Britain  :  France  on  account  of  the  diftinguilhed  turn 
of  the  nation  towards  all  the  liberal  arts,  and  of  the  encourage- 
ment which,  for  this  century  pad,  thofe  arts  have  received 
from  the  public  ;  Great  Britain,  on  account  both  of  the  public 
capacity  and  genius,  and  of  the  free  government  which  it  en- 
joys. Yet,  fo  it  is,  that,  in  neither  of  thofe  countries,  has  the 
talent  of  public  fpeaking  rifen  near  to  the  degree  of  its  an- 
cient fplendor.  While,  in  other  produ£lions  of  genius,  both 
in  profe  and  in  poetry,  they  have  contended  for  the  prize  with 
Greece  and  Rome  ;  nay,  in  fome  compofitions,  may  be  thought 
to  have  furpafl'ed  them  ;  the  names  of  Demoilhenes  and  Cicero, 
Itand,  at  this  day,  unrivalled  in  fame  ;  and  it  would  be  held 
prefumptuous  and  abfurd,  to  pretend  to  place  any  modern 
whatever  in  the  fame,  or  even  in  a  nearly  equal,  rank. 

It  feems  particularly  furprifing,  that  Great  Britain  fhould  not 
have  made  a  more  confpicuous  figure  in  Eloquence  than  it  has 
hitherto  attained ;  when  we  confider  the  enlightened,  and,  at 
the  fame  time,  the  free  and  bold  genius  of  the  country,  which 
feems  not  a  little  to  favour  oratory  ,-  and  when  we  confider 
that,  of  ail  the  polite  nations,  it  alone  pcflefles  a  popular  gov- 
ernment, or  admits  into  the  iegiflature,  fuch  numerous  aflem- 
blies  as  can  be  fuppofed  to  lie  under  the  dominion  of  Eloquence.* 
Notwithftanding  this  advantage,  it  mull  be  confefied,  that,  in 
mod  parts  of  Eloquence,  we  are  undoubtedly  inferior,  not  only 
to  the  Greeks  and  Romans  by  many  degrees,  but  alfo  to  the 
French.  We  have  philofophers,  eminent  and  confpicuous,  per- 
haps, beyond  any  nation,  in  all  the  parts  of  fcience.  We  have 
bath  tafte  and  erudition,  in  a  high  degree.  We  have  hiftori- 
ans,  we  have  poets  of  the  greatefl  name ;  but  of  orators,  or 
public  fpcakers,  how  little  have  we  to  boaft  .''  And  where  are 

the 

*  Mr  Heme,  in  his  EfTay  on  Eloquence,  makes  this  obfervation,  and  illuf- 
trates  it  witli  his  ul'ual  elegance.  He,  indeed,  fuppoTcs,  that  no  fatisfa<a:ory 
rcafons  can  be  given  to  account  for  the  inferiority  of  modern  to  ancient  Elo- 
quence. In  this,  I  ditFcr  from  him,  and  (hall  endeavour,  before  the  conclufion 
ol  this  LetSlure,  to  point  out  fome  caufes  to  which,  I  think,  it  may,  in  a  great 
cicaiure,  be  afcribeJ,  ;ii  the  three  great  fcenes  of  public  fpeaking. 


38o  MODERN  ELOQUENCE.      Lect.  XXVI. 

the  monuments  of  their  genius  to  be  found  ?  In  every  period 
•we  have  had  feme  who  made  a  figure,  by  managing  the  debates 
in  parliament ;  but  that  figure  was  commonly  owing  to  their 
wifdom,  or  their  experience  in  bufinefs,  more  than  to  their  tal- 
ents for  oratory  ;  and,  unlefs  in  fome  few  inftances,  wherein  the 
power  of  oratory  has  appeared,  indeed,  with  much  luftre,  the  art 
of  parliamentary  fpeaking  rather  obtained  to  feveral  a  temporary 
applaufe,  than  conferred  upon  any  a  lafling  renown.  At  the 
bar,  though,  queftionlefs,  we  have  many  able  pleaders,  yet  few 
or  none  of  their  pleadings  have  been  thought  worthy  to  be 
tranfmitted  to  poflerity ;  nor  have  commanded  attention,  any 
longer  than  the  caufc  which  was  the  fubjetl  of  them  interefled 
the  public  ;  while,  in  France,  the  pleadings  of  Patru,  in  tlie 
former  age,  and  thofe  of  Coching  and  D'AguefTeau,  in  later 
times,  are  read  with  pleafure,  and  are  often  quoted  as  examples 
of  Eloquence  by  the  French  critics.  In  the  fame  manner,  in 
the  pulpit,  the  Britifh  divines  have  diftinguifhed  themfelves  by 
the  mod  accurate  and  rational  compofitions  which,  perhaps, 
any  nation  can  boaft  of.  Many  printed  fermons  we  have,  full 
of  good  fenfe,  and  of  found  divinity  and  morality ;  but  the 
Eloquence  to  be  found  in  them,  the  power  of  perfuafion,  of 
interefting  and  engaging  the  heart,  which  is,  or  ought  to  be, 
the  great  obje£l  of  the  pulpit,  is  far  from  bearing  a  fuitable 
proportion  to  the  excellence  of  the  matter.  There  are  few 
arts,  in  my  opinion,  farther  from  perfedion,  than  thnt  of  preach- 
ing is  among  us ;  the  reafons  of  which,  I  Oiall  afterwards  have 
occafion  to  difcufs  j  in  proof  of  the  facl,  it  is  fufBcient  to  ob- 
ferve,  that  an  Englifli  fermon,  inftcad  of  being  a  perfuafive 
animated  oration,  fek'om  rifes  beyond  the  llrain  of  correal  and 
dry  reafoning.  V/hereas,  in  the  iermons  of  BofTuet,  MafTillon, 
Bourdaloue,  and  Flechier,  among  the  French,  we  fee  a  much 
higher  fpecies  of  Eloquence  aimed  at,  and  in  a  great  meafure 
attained,  than  the  Britifh  preachers  have  in  view. 

In  general,  the  chara<5leriftical  diffei-ence  between  the  ftate 
of  Eloquence  in  France  and  in  Great  Britain  is,  that  the  French 
have  adopted  higher  ideas  both  of  pleafing  and  perfuading 
by  means  ofoi-atory,  though,  fometimes,  in  the  execution  they 
fail.  In  Great  Britain,  we  have  tiiken  up  Eloquence  on  a  low- 
er 


Lect.XXVI.      modern   ELOQUENCE.  3S1 

er  key  •,  but  in  our  execution,  aS'was  naturally  to  be  expe£l:ed, 
have  been  more  corre£l.  In  Fr;incc,  the  ftyle  of  their  or^itors 
is  ornamented  with  bolder  figures  ;  and  their  difcourfe  carried 
on  with  more  amplification,  more  warmth  and  elevation.  The 
compofition  is  often  very  beautiful  j  but  fometimes,  alfo,  too 
difFufe,  and  deficient  in  that  ftrength  and  cogency  which  ren- 
ders Eloquence  powerful  ;  a  defeft  owing,  perhaps,  in  part,  to 
the  genlusof  the  people,  which  leads  them  to  attend  fully  asmuch 
to  ornament  as  to  fubftance  ;  and,  in  part,  to  the  nature  of  their 
government,  which,  by  excluding  public  fpeaking  from  hav- 
ing much  influence  on  the  condu£l  of  public  affairs,  deprives 
Eloquence  of  its  befl:  opportunity  for  acquiring  nerves  and 
ftrength.  Hence  the  pulpit  is  the  principal  field  which  is  left 
for  their  Eloquence.  The  members,  too,  of  the  French  acad- 
emy give  harangues  at  their  admiflion,  in  which  genius  often 
appears  ;  but,  labouring  under  the  misfortune  of  having  no 
fubje£l  to  difcourfe  upon,  they  run  commonly  into  flattery  and 
panegyric,  the  mofb  barren  and  infipid  of  all  topics. 

I  obferved  before  that  the  Greek^  and  Romans  afpired  to  a 
more  fublime  fpecies  of  Eloquence,  than  is  aimed  at  by  the 
Moderns.  Theirs  was  of  the  vehement  and  paflionate  kind,  by 
which  they  endeavoured  to  inflame  the  mind  of  their  hearers, 
and  hurry  their  imaginations  away  :  and,  fuitable  to  this  vehe- 
mence of  thought,  was  their  vehemence  of  gefture  and  a£lion ; 
the  "  fupplofio  pedis,"*  the  "  percuflio  frontis  &  femoris,"* 
were,  as  we  learn  from  Cicero's  writings,  ufual  geftures  among 
them  at  the  bar  -,  though  now  they  would  be  reckoned  extrav- 
agant any  where,  except  upon  the  ftage.  Modern  Eloquence 
is  much  more  cool  and  temperate  ;  and  in  Great  Britain  efpec- 
ially,  has  confined  itfelf  almoft  wholly  to  the  argumentative  and 
rational.  It  is  much  of  that  fpecies  which  the  ancient  critics 
called  the  "Tenuis,"  or  "Subtilis  i"  which  aims  at  convincing 
and  inftru£ting,  rather  than  afFc<fling  the  paffions,  and  aflumes 
a  tone  not  much  higher  than  common  argument  and  dif- 
courfe. 

Several  reafons  may  be  given,  wiry  modern  Eloquence  has 
been  fo  limited,  and  humble  in  its  efforts.  In  the  firft  place, 
I  am  of  opinion,  that  this  change  muft,  in  part,  be  afcribed  to 

that 
♦  Vide,  Be  Clar.  Orator, 


35t  MODERN   ELOQUENCE.      Lect.XXVI. 

that  correal  turn  of  thinking,  Mhich  has  been  fo  much  (ludied 
in  modern  times.  It  can  hardly  be  doubted,  that,  in  many 
efforts  of  mere  genius,  the  ancier.t  Greeks  and  Romans  excell- 
ed us ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  that,  in  accuracy  and  clofencfs 
c(  reafoning  on  many  fubje^ls,  we  have  fome  advantage  over 
them,  ought,  I  think,  to  be  admitted  alfo.  In  proportion  as 
the  v/orld  has  advanced,  philofophy  has  made  greater  pro- 
grefs.  A  certain  ftridinefs  of  good  fenfe  has,  in  this  iiland  par- 
ticularly, been  cultivated,  and  introduced  into  every  fubje6l. 
Hence  wc  are  more  on  our  guard  againfh  the  flowers  of  Elocu- 
tion ;  we  are  on  the  watch  •,  we  are  jealous  of  being  deceived 
by  oratory.  Our  public  fpeakers  are  obliged  to  be  morereferv- 
ed  than  the  ancients,  in  their  attempts  to  elevate  the  imagina- 
tion, and  warm  the  paflions  j  and  by  the  influence  of  prevail- 
ing tafte,  their  own  genius  is  fobered  and  chaftened,  perhaps, 
in  too  great  a  degree.  It  is  likely  too,  I  confefs,  that  what  we 
fondly  afcribe  to  our  corredtnefs  and  good  fenfe,  i?  owing,  in  a 
great  meafure,  to  our  phlegm  and  natural  coldnefs.  For  the 
vivacity  and  fenfibility  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  more  ef- 
pecially  of  the  former,  feem  to  have  been  much  greater  than 
ours,  and  to  have  given  them  a  higher  relifh  of  all  the  beauties 
cf  oratory. 

Befides  thefe  national  confiderations,  we  mufl:,  In  the  next 
place,  attend  to  peculiar  circurafl:ances  in  the  three  great  fccnes 
©f  public  fpsaking,  which  have  proved  difadvantageous  to  the 
growth  of  Eloquence  among  us.     Though  the  parliament  of 
Great  Brlt:iin  be  tlie  noblevt  field  which  Europe,   at  this  day, 
j-fTords  to  a  public  fpeakcr,  yet  Eloquence  has  never  been  fo. 
powerful  an  inilrument  there,  as  it  was  in  the  popular  aflem- 
blies  of  Greece  and  Rome.    Under  fome  fornier  reigns^  the  high 
I  hand  of  arbitrary  power  bore  a  violent  fv/ay  •,    and  in  later 
'  times,  minifterial  infiijeuce  has  generally  prevailed.     The  pow- 
er of  fpeakingi  though  always  confsderable,  yet  has  been  oftea 
found  too  feeble  to  counterbalance  either  of  thefe  ;  and,  of 
courfe,  has  not  been  fl.udied  with  fo  much  zeal  and  fervour, 
»s  where  its  efFedl  on  bufmefs  was  irrcfiftible  and  certain. 
At  the  bar,  our  difadvantage,  in  comparlfon  of  the  ancients, 
.is  great.      Among  them,  the  judges  were  generally  numerous ; 
♦he  laws  were  few  and  nmple  ;  the  decifion  of  caufes  was  left, 

in 


Lect.  XXVI.       MODERN  ELOC)UENCE.  3S3 

in  a  great  meafure,  to  equity  and  the  fenfe  of  mankind.  Hsre 
was  an  ample  field  for  what  they  termed  judicial  Eloquence. 
But  among  the  moderns,  the  cafe  is  quite  altered.  The  fyftem 
of  law  is  become  much  more  complicated.  The  knov/Iedge  of 
it  is  thereby  rendered  fo  laborious  an  attainment,  as  to  be  the 
chief  obje(Sl  of  a  lawyer's  education,  and  in  a  manner,  tlie  ftudy 
of  his  life.  The  art  of  fpeaking  is  but  a  fecondary  accomplifn- 
ment,  to  which  he  can  afford  to  devote  much  lefs  of  his  time 
and  labour.  The  bounds  of  Eloquence,  befides,  are  now  much 
circumfcribed  at  the  bar ;  and  except,  in  a  few  cafes,  reduced 
to  arguing  from  ftriifl:  law,  flatute,  or  precedent ;  by  which 
means  knowledge,  much  more  than  oratory,  is  become  the  prin- 
•cipal  requifitc. 

With  regard  to  tl)e  pulpit,  it  has  certainly  been  a  great  dif- 
advantage,  that  the  pra£lice  of  x-eading  fermons,  inftead  o£ 
repeating  them  from  memory,  has  prevailed  fo  univerfaliy  in 
England.  This  may,  indeed,  have  introduced  accuracy  j  but 
it  has  done  great  prejudice  to  Eloquence ;  for  a  difcourfe  read, 
is  far  inferior  to  an  oration  fpoken.  It  leads  to  a  different  fort 
of  compofition,  as  well  as  of  delivery ;  and  can  never  have 
an  equal  effecl  upon  any  audience.  Another  circumftance, 
too,  has  been  unfortunate.  The  fetlaries  and  fanatics,  before 
the  Reiioration,  adopted  a  warm,  zealous,  and  popular  manner 
of  preaching  ;  and  thofe  who  adhered  to  them,  in  aftertimes, 
continued  to  diftinguifn  themfelves  by  fomewhat  of  the  fame 
manner.  The  odium  of  thefe  fe£ts  drove  the  eftablifi^ed  church 
from  that  warmth  which  they  v/ere  judged  to  have  carried  too 
far,  into  the  oppofite  extreme  of  a  itudied  coolnefs,  and  com- 
pofure  of  manner.  Hence,  from  the  art  of  perfuafion,  which 
preaching  ought  always  to  be,  it  Jias  pafled,  in  England,  into 
mere  reafoning  and  inftruftion  ;  which  not  only  has  brought 
down  the  Eloquence  of  the  pulpit  to  a  lower  tome  than  it  might 
juftly  aflume  ;  but  has  produced  this  farther  etFe£l:,  that,  by  ac- 
cuftoming  the  public  ear  to  fuch  cool  and  difpafilonate  dif- 
courfes,  it  has  tended  to  fafliion  other  kinds  of  public  fpeaking 
upon  the  fame  model. 

Thus  I  have  given  fome  view  of  tlie  (late  of  Eloquence  la 
modern  times,  and  endeavoured  to  account  for  it.  It  has,  as 
we  have  fcen,  falhn  below  that  fphnviour  which  it  maintained 


384  MODERN   ELOQUENCE.      Lect.  XXVL 

in  ancient  ages ;  and  from  being  fublime  and  vehement,  has 
come  down  to  be  temperate  and  cool.  Yet,  ftill  in  that  region 
which  it  occupies,  it  admits  great  fcope  ;  and,  to  the  defe£l  of 
2eal  and  application,  more  than  to  the  want  of  capacity  and 
genius,  we  may  afcribe  its  not  having  hitherto  rifen  higher.  It 
is  a  field  where  there  is  much  honour  yet  to  be  reaped  ;  ii:  is  an 
inllrument  which  may  be  employed  for  purpofes  of  the  higheft 
importance.  The  ^ncient  models  may  ftill,  with  much  advan- 
tage, be  fet  before  us  for  imitation  :  though,  in  that  imitation, 
we  muft,  doubtlefs,  have  fome  regard  to  what  modern  tafte 
and  modern  manners  will  bear  j  of  which  I  Ihall  afterwards 
have  occaf-on  to  fay  more. 


.E^rD   OF    FOLLTME  I. 


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